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 to ...This article is available to subscribers and for individual purchase
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Elizabeth Spires new book of poems, The Wave-Maker, was published by Norton in July 2008
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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 16 June 1998, on page 36
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