Wassily Kandinsky
Every landscape
rises
into the air,
and one can see in its midst
the little red horses,
and the blue pallor
of what was always,
and never,
a chair.
Their crashing forms
suggest
a bric a brac
among an eternity of the sun,
and the silences
that evaporate
and return to the sky
aerated,
bright, and finally undone.
So it is
in the Resurrection of the Dead,
The figures of the angels
blowing trumpets
above our unsuccess.
The music’s black line
suggesting a shining
that both ends and begins
at the left lower edge of the canvas,
and is always turning
density
into color’s
cry
and the
shapes
that wrest themselves
from all desire,