patience

I swallowed once, to clear my ears
of their insectile ringing, which continued,

distinct, and moved one foot noiselessly and looked
up to where the light came in white

as if fluorescing, but filtered in through what glass
one could not say for one could not see it:

it spilled over the baffle, octagonal to match
the octagon of the walls, whitening everything:

the black stone floor, the heavy wood benches
where I sat, wondered how long I would sit,

how long the woman on the zabuton before me
would sit motionless, how long before I

would rise and then leave: the dark panels
did not change but somehow became still

more visible, purpling into black, into that ink
of blue, a black edged in oxblood: and I rose,

felt breath move within my ribs, circumambulated
the oblong purples blues blacks reds, paint in thin layers

a mute drone so somber yet the light in its
invisible particles I took in once more,

and again breathed it, looked up, around,
and opened the door, and left.

(at the Rothko Chapel)