The Whiteness of Buddhas

The no-point where momentum stops
that's his
          in the time
when our tides run into white

not snow-blanket white
but the white
that colours fall back from
          searing reds sobbing blues

the way the sea falls back
          the shore gets drier
in earshot of water

dry knowing of tide-lunge and suck
dry hearing
          of the gnash hiss
and sea-mumbled mantras

no fog no rolling on
the air is so clear
it draws me upright
to walk in the promise

where I could fashion the moonrise smile
the arms that frame
the world-meeting chest
thumb-tips in touch palms opening

as love ought to
does sometimes for a moment
in its moment
           and we could talk about that

but it's this white
that can't be proclaimed
           not the white of pigment
supremacy and flaming crosses

the white
         of no-white

could as well be black
or the half-open gate
           or your face rightly seen

        just stop.

We live at the prism's edge
where light breaks into a language
of glowing forms and futures
            that belong to yesterday

Posted: Mon 11 Apr, 2016