1 min
A poem I pulled from the files. Seriously, what would Rothko say if he saw those prices? Probably something like “get me a piece of that money.”
RETROSPECTIVE
Even the smallest of Manhattan’s buildings is leaning
left in their bid to become the glass for expanding sky.
As everything is either growing or gradually going
away, even those reddish bricks are willing to throw
themselves into the task. I keep missing when grasping
at my coffee cup. I keep wishing I could see you
waving from your desk on 57th and 3rd. I keep watching
as the Whitney hosts a Mark Rothko retrospective
and someone sets explosive. Now Rothko is the sky.
The second time I managed to control my breathing
as the wind became New York you locked your bedroom
door and then turned off the light. You were wearing
flannel bed-pants— those red and green pajamas,
plaid against your jersey t-shirt sheets. You lit a candle,
even though we were far too young to understand
the implications. The heels of your feet pressed
against me had me forgetting about the fire escape.
In the gray haze that sometimes allows Manhattan
into morning, your form, your mouth, the light and shadows
separated strands of hair from your face and neck. My eyes
were open. The walls were breathing. I symbolized
your smell into a color. Your perfume became a drama
and I could no longer hope to speak.
This afternoon there is New York and grayish ambition.
There are one million misunderstandings we might hope
to jump to. From a million new beginnings. Two people
leaning closer— that scattered lump of buildings
merging into sky.