Lately I’ve been eating at Rothko Café,
face down at the bar, praying
for aspirin and coffee. Bolts
of vermilion stab my eyes,
between my temples rouge and blood contend.
I’m waiting for Rebbe Braun
to enter, cover me with his coat,
divide the deep
and from it form a place to stand.
Loam – sand my palate, dim my saffron,
I don’t need egg yolk.
Don’t give me bacon. Just let me roll
across some gold-flecked desert
old enough to dry my wet humors,
desiccate my wilting, fleshly self.