Ann Lauterbach

Elegy for Sol Lewitt

The weather map today is pale. The lines on the map 
are like the casts of fishing lines 
looping and curved briefly across air. 
The sky now, also, toward evening, is pale. 
On Sunday, in Beacon, there were lines 
drawn on walls and also lines 
drawn across the canvases of the last paintings 
of Agnes Martin. One of them has two pale squares 
on a blackened field. 

The lines on your walls 
follows directions 
as if 

as if there were a kind of logic 
charged with motion 
at the end of winter: the pale blue northern cold 
almost merged with the pale green 

at Hartford, and then the blank newsprint of the sea.