Flat Statement

For Agnes Martin

Every part of a line is stripped

from demands

and the devotion
means laying bare

to the score
of drift, shiver,

possession, unreeling. Day begins

in the desert

with its discipline and wells

to the high point

of stones in cinnamon
light, layering toughened

history over
a region of equivocal

shelter. She won’t draw

this or the sun

defending low
weeds, won’t look

to calculate a sensible
landscape, each variation,

or even the shape
of a mother, an abandonment

that should have

been dwelling

rather than claw. In the desert,

if you wander

far enough, you’ll find
an abyss and she won’t

be there
either, won’t boundary

out to true
black. She’ll tell you

flat out, she isn’t
showing you any part

of the whole upturned

earth or the light

that might appear

stretched out

around her, needing

to be seen, to make a mark.