My goodness
is real, he tells
himself. Is pure

snow, cloud,
hay beard.
My intentions

are pale,
calm, bowl of
Cream of Wheat. 

If it’s not
white, it’s
imaginary,

he tells himself.
There are
other shades

of world, but
they are his
to define. His

imagination
is all. My intentions
are my best

self, he says.
My goodness
is perfect, light

of a perfect
universe, gift
of a blinding 

faith. White
as milk,
white as

the light
of some
cloudy dawns.

Of course
I’m clean,
he insists.

Of course,
I am without stain —
you are thinking

of my unbleached
ancestors, but know that
I did not inherit

a thing from them —
in fact, let me
put this to rest:

they are
imaginary so
my imagination,

my rules. They were
devoid of color too. This is
how I keep it real,

he says,
eyes closed so tight that
all turns white in there.