White

Behind a sign, behind a
script, the blank, before.

A long Antarctica of hotel sheets.
Away, I could be anyone.

But closer, the cloud bank's light-bloom,
the snowfield's drone.
The empty-never-empty.
A whiteout, a swarm.

The freeway we no longer hear, the sound
no story rises from.

The underlying: breakfast over, dishes done,
and put away, and you
are here, and here

you are. The underlying: I've touched
you again, before knowing
I wanted to touch you.

Copyright © 2007 Jessica Johnson All rights reserved
from Burnside Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission