Write What You Don’t

Newly constructed white walls
With no furniture in them,
Plenty of windows and light—

Such a scene used to appeal
To you, and you still admire
An absence of furniture,

But the white walls have become
Oppressively obsessive,
And your first viewer’s instinct

Is to haul in some vivid
Colors to paint a riot.
End up with a jewel box

Of panels of Matisse hues
In O’Keefe-quality sun
And sit quietly in that,

On the floor, of course, your knees
Drawn up to your chin, eyelids
Drawn half down against the light,

Features drawn in light charcoal.
Now you’re in there, or, rather,
Your memories have combined

A new model in your mind.
Question—should you finish this?
No, a model can be built,

Rooms rebuilt and repainted,
Cartoon awareness added,
But leave a poem unfinished.