eating the bones of the poem

suicide factory,
6 a.m.,
and rothko is always waiting at the door

has his pills and his
ideas about transcendence

wants to paint you
in shades of black and grey

wants me to listen to the sound of
razor blades through bare flesh

calls it music and he calls it holy and
what matters here is that i am
less than i was
when you and i were together

what matters here is the possibility
that the pale blurred sunlight
of my childhood might return

that the dead lawns up and
down this bitter street are
nothing more than premonitions

after fifteen years of february
i am ready to start breathing again