The blank canvas.

I only want to be looked at
While there's time.

Spare nothing--not trees,
Not your labor force.

Spend money, devise a thing
Do what you have to do to make this happen.

Produce a perfect blank canvas reminiscent

Of those armless clocks tolling in your sleep,
That ferality of dancing oceans--
Had teachers not taught you
Would you know their Names?
Those faces between counted sheep whose features
You could not restore, nor even dream about.

How romantic it is to have and to hold
Nothing.

As it is not the substance in beauty that compels,
But the compulsion that we continue to look for it
Where so little lies open for us, and when
Our need exceeds the provisions of space.