Composition No. 9 (Blue Facade)


I did not believe in your shapes.
Love became exhibitions between portrait
and landscape; I 
the desert, you the solitude.
I stayed, still, 
to be more the night.
Waiting for the dawn's
angels, indigo in morning.

Profound sinners, children, we
stretch across Chicago to the sea.
We would dye squares
in this formula:

You, me, you --
without words, without
faces to relieve us, we
spoke only in color,
softly blurred lines,
thoughts; noise
embraced the wish of images.

You, my storm.
I deferred, slow swirls by the edge
to rise and torture.
To provide a sequel.
You kept nature prisoner.

The world out of focus,
identity lost
within the privilege of being
the painting.

5 September 2000

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