Image of the Rothko Chapel from houstonmuseumdistrict.org
The horizon slants—
The clearest sky is smoke—
Grey cannot escape its many colors—
The purest notes are the loneliest and most vivid
Love's pleasures create in us
Sensations of portals, wildflowers, wet light—
Harmony seals space into chambers,
Out of two comes one boundary
It's not that the objects I adore
Resemble my heart,
It's that my heart created them
And wants to keep them safe and warm
For sleepy and inebriated eyes
Purple is the residue
That we were here
And this poem a way of talking
To no one
