Treasure Island

Greg Williamson


White


“Only when we kick the habit of mind
Which sees in pictures little corners of nature,
Madonnas, shameless Venuses shall we find
A work of living art, ” saith the lecture,

And you, the hack, the scribbler, with your dumb grin
Of sentiment, sign, self, the vulgar heart
Of content, tint, text, were complicit in
The well-patinaed, off-white lies of art

Until in your clean (last) white shirt so chic
Down here, through reams of winters, you pursue
Your final undertaking, to ghostwrite
In air, a palimpsest of pure technique,
Stripped of allusion, mediation, you:
Moonlight on Snow with Wind in White
on White.

Submitted: Friday, September 13, 2013
Edited: Monday, September 16, 2013

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