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.