The wall is solid white. No bumps
no cracks, no indentations mar
its whiteness. So relentlessly
immaculate and smooth and pure
(as any windowpane might be
before a hand is thrusted through).
The motion of his hand is all
he knows. A white brush full of white
he strokes across and doesn’t care
he paints a wall already white.
When pausing, he is never sure
where he had stopped or should resume,
but careful to correct all streaks,
maintains the purity he seeks.
And light is white, does not appear
from anywhere he can discern.
Falls, diffusing, white and pure
Or does it rise? And should he care?
The light is white and everywhere.
From time to time he looks away
and sees that white goes on as far
as he could hope on either side.
He almost feels discomfort when
he ponders painting it again.
But when his hand begins to brush,
he knows what only he would know:
he’s like an artist in no rush,
painting polar bears and snow.
About the author:
Michael Harmon holds a B.A. in English Literature from Long Island University and a B.S. in Computer Information Systems from Arizona State University. His work has appeared in Riverrun (Glen Oaks Community College, Centreville, MI), The Raintown Review, The North American Review, The Adirondack Review, The New Formalist, and Snakeskin.