I am in bookbinding class
with a man who cannot see colors.

We fold eighty pages of blank paper,
trim the sides, wax the thread.

His coptic stitch is tidier,
while I am a mess with glue,

but I still have an edge. I bully him
into a trust-fall. I will choose his colors for him.

             He points at an endpaper, Is this blue?
             Is it cold?

His clothes are all black, white, or gray.
I have never felt more useful.

            Tell me, friend, is this ocean or nightsky?