I cannot remember the term used to describe this sort of writing, but general, we were asked to write about two squares. A black square, and a white square. Two objects made purely out of lines — the specifics were up to us. I won’t remember now how I started to imagine these squares, but looking back on them, they still have meaning to me.
lines on a white square
To stare into is to stare out from.
From these walls, of which size
and dimension mean very little,
the nature of everything seems
to collapse into itself
and, finally, all. Neutrality on
the atomic plane.
Perspective is at every extremity of
this shape, devoid of color and,
you assume, purpose. It ogles you,
each of the four corners, right
back – and they tremble, agitated,
when obligation draws you away.
But after a moment like that,
and vision itself becomes but
context, you will see this
indefinite thing in every frame, on
every shelf, in every expression.
lines on a black square
Peering into a somber reflection,
I am reminded of those heavy moments
near dusk, when the contours of the
physical world melt to shadows -
a horizon of colors peering proudly
from the pronounced ridges of
an earthly jaw.
I think of widows, devotedly attending
to the shapes of change. Of
the unlit radiance of their skin, the
darkened veils through which the
starless sky fills them with
every hollow breath.
There is a manner of stability set even
in the surface I have fought to mimic.
The engineering of a color is far
beyond our kind, but geometrics
have never lost heart in the fight to remain.