Roy Herndon Smith
Last night Vanna White
wore a silver gown. We say
we know the color,
but memory makes
categorical “silver,”
not the glittering
variegations
of particularities
her gliding across
the stage made into
a world of light. Tonight, she
wears blue. The world cools,
ripples, swells, and flows.
A contestant spins the wheel,
and we know knowing—
the click of the wheel,
the audience still, Vanna
While poised to—is of
the unknowable,
fortune approaching to kiss
us into colors
we won’t know again.
Some night, we know Vanna White
will wear a red dress,
the world will catch fire,
and knowing will flame into
clouds of unknowing.
dust 