Listen to poem:
White on White, a White-Out Bliss
Page left blank wins, wins
if I never start a line
I can't get it wrong;
with no ending left to find—
the start can't falter; unwind.
A blank page is bliss—
white space an endless delight
with no trace of ink
left half-done to reek and taunt
its pristine incompleteness.
I outsmart "The End"
with no "In the Beginning"—
nor any "Meanwhile"
to divert from emptiness
echoing sheer vacuum-ness.
Silence quakes with guilt—
words foreclosed are blocked at source,
nothing's left to fail;
nothing to erase or fix;
with a deft dab of white-out.
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