after Jill

   What’s whatever fire sought the wool dyed

   The edge’s of the coat-rack glorified

   What’s not pink sunk to cynicism,

   Tongue-tied for the dear old word, to think

   All of everything is prisoned & pained,

   The fabric’s cutting color cataclysm –

   Jackson stuck the fridge magnet to the kitchen sink

   Says nothing lost – whatever is what ever, like

   Modernism is a product of the color. Post-stained

   Pink, the sweater weathered is whenever

   The individuality of the tongue decides the link

   Pollock biting the juice of the skin forever.