I find comfort in the cold of grey & its undertones
like waves, how the heat comes—goes
museums contain the best light, falling from their windows
they are built that way
I think of MoMA’s wall out to the garden even now
how my walls are still bare but carry shadows
well during the night
What are you doing & are you feeling better
the kind of words on the reverse of postcards from
cities with tall buildings
not enough room for a reply
the figure in the drawing, the girl who posed for the
sculpture
people in profile
my hands showing their age
I have no half-moons in my nail beds so I look at yours
When the cold ends things will grow as they do
& the light will change back, hitting the street from
this angle
where will we go I might ask, biting the corners of my mouth
someplace can’t be the answer
the blinds wave back
[I wrote this based on a prompt that called for following the number of stanzas & lines of another poem, & then using a line from the original poem as the title. I used Frank O'Hara's Les Luths]
