After Rothko Chapel
Octagonal off-blacks, empty pyramids
and eyes that don't gaze. Rays of purple suns
and nonreflective moons, about the shrine
the heavens move. The darkness isn't black,
but red or blue, the diamond stars are splayed
across the ecliptic. Waxing moons are letters
spelling the names of god, the colors worship
in the darkness. Eight sides pray the spirit
into the real, the light is made to realize
forms of love. The way the bench reflects
a natural white, the way her eyes were wet
with sighs. I meditate on the nothing
within, the power of the understanding
that's apprehended in this sacred place.
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