Whiter than paper, whiter than snow,
whiter than the moon in its fullness,
whiter than clouds passing over,

I close my eyes and see white stars

hanging in the air of the backyard.

For weeks they are out there.

Whiter than music, whiter than bone,
whiter than ivory, whiter than hope,
whiter than prayer, whiter than a name,

Whitest of all white things in the world,

I want to know what you know.

Whiter than silence, whiter than thought,
whiter than interruption, whiter than frost,
whiter than the body’s hollows,

Now, after too many white words,

I stumble and touch branches heavy

with ten thousand blurred white petals.

Whiter than love or death,
whiter than my winter breath,
whiter than a white room’s emptiness,

As if I could count them all, one

for each man, woman, and child.

Whiter than the blank white sky,
whiter than the white of an eye,
whiter than foam on the breaking black wave—

For weeks you have stood there,

arms raised like a priest

in silent ceremony, praising creation

in the only way you know, now
tell me why we have to die.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 16 Number 10, on page 36
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