Untitled, 1965 (After Robert Ryman)
You were already gone
in monochrome scaffolds
where time is texture
and vision apprehends vision
in the flash before form finds a name.
Here there’s no room for a self to sift through.
These minute strips of white—
glacial in the right light and mind—
dislodge from the cling of language.
At the frame’s edge thought stops
on a gray splotch: an imagined origin.
Reading this again after your pointer to the Alice Gribbin essay.
Thanks.