My horse is massive white. My flag is also white.
The scarf I wear around my heart is bleached to white.
My first love, the physicist, went by the name of Strange.
He has become a stranger the way hair turns white.
The point at which a lover changes to a friend
is not a point. Not pink. It is a shade of white.
Allergic to flowers, he hangs photographs of lilies.
His rooms are painted green. I remember them as white.
You know the magazine by its bright yellow frame.
You know the men you love to read have skin called white.
Although all flesh is heading for the earth, my love,
why do you hurry it by tanning what is white?
To apprehend every multicolored flickering thing,
refract, Jee, in two densities the passing white.