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.”
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.