I'm conversing Rothko in whispers

lifting my fingers, exalted, cathedral like

coaxing my friend who knows the craft of frozen

breakfasts, pool table scuffles & lounge room

            posters & reading everything

as if it were a drunk manuscript

Now, he stands before this ache of color

in fluster, blushing like the cranberry canvas

in front of him. Is this carnal?  he asks

Cowlick swirls permeate his fractured question

            as we crumble into the distillate reds

scorching the image with fury & dissonance

He imagines a stolen waltz, I dream

the volatile margins of a goodbye letter

           We both see the beginnings of life

& then—moody particles dissipate before us

leaving the sun to fend for itself outside