FRANK STELLA'S WAVES
In the gallery of angels, Frank Stella's waves
hunger for alizarin nouns, arabesqued murexes,
the purpled royalty and somnolent gold of divided
realms.
We presume we are defined by logic
but Ahab was afraid of sea worms
and other insidious notions untitled by definition.
The sea is a waterfall sliding off the edge of the
world.
What we believe to be true defines the world;
what we are capable of seeing has to do with faith.
Projectiles in space have little to do
with the back side of the moon.
Even the astronauts haven't walked there
because they can't imagine its shadows.
The shadows of buffalo still roam the prairie at
night.
Sometimes when the moon is right
you can see them from the corner of your eye.
Yo soy el muerte the wind says,
and the bells follow in sequential patterns:
time imagining itself in crepuscular archways
on those quasi-tranquil days without end,
without movement; who decided the days of the week?
Prime numbers hide their faces;
we age just the same, confusing love with death.
A friend says love is what you do together;
death is alone. I can't forget the blue of his eyes
or the spilled blood covered with a film of dust;
a bouquet for the earth. We are hungry, chanting
the night is a cannibal eating itself.
We let it happen: complacency slips in
and we forget the patterns by morning.
Impenetrable stones in the earth.
Russia is a noun for red as in blood,
as in death in the gallery of angels.
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