In nine-zero-one, the walls are white,

the floors are white,

the doors and windows are white,

the cupboards are white

–

on my birthday a friend even sent,

flowers that are white.

–

They are on my table now, by the window.

–

From the wonder of science,

and of poetic imagination,

constrained by the specs of the human eye,

the sun’s light, in nine-zero-one, too,

is white.

–

I wonder how you would be, in nine-zero-one.

I imagine a prism, only one of its kind,

the white strikes you and disperses

and then emerges, in nine-zero-one,

a spectrum of color,

a mehfil of wavelengths and being.