Monks & Mannequins

the night tears away
like a match, billowing
and booming in
movie stills —

the mind, a hand turning
images, sepia
and azure blue.

something slips on nights
as these, the track of being?

i sat in the car all night
nearly frozen, alone
surrounded by the machinery
of worry –

she had left

this storm is dark, I am
a character looking for a line –

what is the meaning
of this storm and rain
and why is my mind
fixed on it?

as if it mattered.

poem by chris woodhull / art by mark rothko