White

White is the name of someone who lives on an island who has a beautiful friend and white isn’t really a friend of mine nor am I very taken with their shorts and short-sleeved shirts of hiding and remembering nothing in between pages of books in a language that just manages to resemble some other language of memory and dreams thick like syrup and sensitive like a crownless tooth on the lower jaw canine bow wow imagining heavy rain flowers falling petals in heavy metal tunes and screams that repeat the same syllables over and over again and because they are all so loud it feels like everything they say is true and everything they do is to be blue play the blues like no one has ever blued before inside indigo nights of rainbows or the lack of them deep in moments of joy and ecstasy beneath tongue-skin seeping into the stream of blood and consciousness through the porous skin osmosis of awesomeness of the way things move from one place to another – particles take buses and steam-engine trains to get through pores holes holy pores porous holes to get to the other side that promises to be something else and something else at all before the time comes for a mirror to break into a million pieces to settle things into the stillness and the silence of the nights when owls have disappeared in between the palms of shaking hands moving biscuits and cookies on trays of tea and honey and warm water springs that fall like summers and rise like winter steam breath of travelers who ride horses of certainty and valour