Rothko No. 21

The canvas is a burst of red –
            A cosmic bleed.
A red so moist, you feel

wet

            From the summer of brushstrokes.

A red, quasi-bleached from years

            Dripping, time

            Ticking, dust

            Kneeling over the naked paint. 

You stare

            And stare

                        And stare –

            Your eyes dilated,

                        Like nude oranges

Until you become one,
                       saturated
            With the color Red.