We count our ways and still get lost.
Where once white stones shone, now
The path is strown
With white lies, spilled milk and white window envelopes
Hiding a golden paving of good intentions.
So we wipe the slate clean. Use chlorine. Disinfect and inspect.
But all the clichéd blues, fierce reds, pathetic greens,
All the so-called fresh pinks and dashing yellows,
Are all, when added, white.
In our haste to charge ahead we forget
That white flags do not show in a blizzard.
You hear white noise as I speak. I take revenge: at night
Your breath intermingles with the bloating of white sheep.
You want to ride a white horse? I picket the white house
Covering the lawn with a desert of sugar crystals.
Our precious white tea leaks from one porcelain cup
To another through our bodies; our sieves. Ashes to ashes.
All white, all white these bones,
All, all white.

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