Sibilant silence is accurate
As the chapel fills with rising octaves—
Hurricane Rothko nocturnal triptych opera
Nightfall voices widedeep wonder pockmark awe.
Thrum through, through furrows,
Bones, skin, teeth and vociferous mind
—Bible-black and vesper plum wine.
Revealing, heavy curtains bereft of stars,
Beauty whirling, weaving into patina skeins
Wrapping beholders of his darkest incantation.
Aware arising arias, voices in prayer—Preghiera,
Open up every opera, to passion, its pause
Every storm opens its rattle rage, its becalming eye.
Aftermath’s wake leave mad gathering what may,
Rothko, shuddering, silence so finite, by his own
Deft hand, composing temporal sacred laments,
Slices his bothersome wrists, sighs razor’s edge, and dies.
Blood burbling, falling
—Bible-black and vesper plum wine—
Splattering as absolute, God-given stars.
—As if from the lungs of Simon whistling down Iscariot
Darkness smokes briefly alights as singed doves.