INTERPRETING RED BY ALICIA SOMETIMES

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