There is a patch of white
as tall as I am, nearly,
standing aslant on the wall.
It is impossible to tell
whether it is a swatch of new paint
covering a wound in the original,
or a vestige of underpaint,
peeking out through a gap
in a coat fourteen inches too short
to hide it.
Or perhaps a protected chink
that took shelter behind family photos
and thus escaped the stains and fades
Whatever it is, that patch is alone.
So I watch the wall trying
to come to know itself.