^{—after Etel Adnan}

And there,  
between clean walls 
you assume  
the position, 
angled toward  
the red squares  
roiling 
on her canvases.

Into the oils  
of a new tense 
she herself 
days before  
had dissolved.

There, impasto: 
her mountain.

Trimmed down  
to the first  
seeing.

Tamalpais  
at every pitch, 
pistachio  
patches scraping 
against cobalt. 
Edges opaque 
until they refused.

Mountainous, 
she, too— 
which is to say  
surfacing, 
color latching  
to the seasons  
where meaning 
rushes.

Of this transition 
the living are given  
no access.                                                                

You, turning  
away from  
the dry wall, 
where nothing 
tears through.

A red square 
appears in your days 
yet you know 
not yet where.