“
Now reading
The Rothko Paintings
Currents around a pole, or a fire
damping to stillness,
they conduce to our calm in their process,
terminal, voiceless.
Unbound, yet selves in the exigence
of merely having to be,
like a new map, these continents
explore us to the sea.
LYRIC (ll)
This house is shrieking with consent,
unfetter the air:
braced walls explode, windows
rumple and spray like sea, bricks
trumpet to the sun, floors swell
and tear, like flowers bubbling their hearts'
grave wine in dusty sills, until
day's heat is done,
the chains
flutter to rest and through the dark, contention
falls on the house like peace, like air.