MARCUS ROTHKOWITZ
believed
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:
melted shear
felt smear
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
for ages
of our condition
as shapes and colors
without names.