the performer exits before the audience.
We inhabit hues where forms meet
on edgeless horizon,
shade drawn over windowpane,
blind pulled over detail.
These objects, neither action nor field:
the heavy handprint of a man
who likened his craft to notes that
Nietzsche swore bore tragedy
(existence for an instant),
who destroyed his subpar, so, when grey,
destroyed himself. Rothko’s relics:
months of thought
for minutes of movement
of our condition
as shapes and colors