What can I put that won’t follow
or stick: to the white

we rely on for whiteness, for dawn:
what we must. The sun

to blind us enough, to help us go on.
It’s always: in motion

the question burning its mark as
it goes: what are these

words. What is their relationship
to light. What do I even

remember about my life. I open
a book at night: copy a line

again. It copies my tone: dares me
that white on its face

demands: that I write it, that I
too come undone