January 1, 2011
Jan 1, 2011
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
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January 01, 2011