Poem 83 Revised

White all white, but white when it pretends to be yellow
a mustard fellow putting on airs declares
white caps of pretence on its plainer self.
 
Where else it may begin, below the calm
a storm of sentiment along the white whirling spheres
what hears the water come, a thumb on the rod
 
Of a well-oiled brush, with rush rounding our sounds
of yellow borrowing blue from the grey
come stay your eyes on a spatter here, a red
 
Run rattling on the eye, so shy some could call it calm
but lower still the truth tracks color on the canvass
a crass brass last attempt at sunlight, yellow all along.
—ECW 

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