Aftermath
Rothko’s streak of black paint crosses from left to right
halted by the frame on either side, its linear extension only surmised
and dredged up as a cry comes as a sharp cut in air
all that has happened, color coloring sound
what is a natural voice
I can’t even find it when I’m talking out loud no matter the color
of the sky
afterwords not only pages in books but ones made in air,
on canvas those iridescent black lines
a distant voice calling used to be a bedroom each of us slept in
out there out the window of what comes next,
birds, crying crows
if nothing in words can be visual, what’s sound on a page
and yet below the black is gray or orange, a kind of silent enigma
so many colors
like sounds merging, one’s own and a washed-out ventriloquy
liquid moving
as balance wavers, a glass of water on an outstretched hand
as turning silent in the midst of speaking as hearing
voices slipped in, no longer able to speak sitting in the dark listening
to the highly purpled air, streaks of maroon.
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