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After De Kooning's “Night,” 1948

Night was eternal winter, as
City was eternal night— In winter
They’d look to the sunset, as in night
He’d travel her municipal hips and
Trunk for that crimson puddle reflecting
Perfectly scratched, the sun’s final gesture
Like a garage door wet with house paint
How it made easier the pitch, how
On arrival, he’d dig through the trash
Hurling car parts, tin cans, and luggage
Leaving long scars and holed up
Impressions on her frozen waiting
The only thing between them this
Conveyor belt of black Mississippi, a
Seemingly endless way to say goodbye
To the idyllic, a way to inch closer to his
Grip as she swung in the crook of his arm
Her scarf sailing hot pink and blue, remnant
Of a happier moment— But in morning
Skin was skin, a grayness replacing that
Mode of immediacy, and it was, she
Learned the Hudson that framed her;
Specificities lost to the night, in
Which he let her love him

© 2007 Jennifer Pilch