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
Monks & Mannequins 