on meeting Cy Twombly’s art the day before he died

Doesn’t it make sense that when read out loud,
his name, with one foot in the boat, looks up.

And because the boat is a handcrafted version
of his soul, primed with the white house paint

of the ordinary, it proves itself extraordinary, navigating
the scrawl between it and the funerary box of the museum

where it gives a final tour of his work. Here, it says, is an early
encounter, when my presence is inferred and already

transforming — translated, of course, into a very vocal
lime green. And this mixing wand, dipped in the electricity

of the unspeakable art speaks of my experience in the worthy vessel
that will always be known as Cy, short for “Cyclone,”

Twombly who, upon learning of our parting, will inevitably
recall this pink while watching the exhaust of his name

mark a line above water.

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