Rose Auslander

I don’t really want to talk about it.

The usual story:

We went on a boat to Germany;

only a painting came back.

A self-portrait in a cube

in the middle of a landscape

full of other paintings 

without windows,

in a green that no longer exists,

it identifies who we were:

all our discussions

everything chilling in our refrigerators,

our making,

unmaking.

A story in a room

in a novel that was a house,

floating.