Cryptic Route

Cryptic Gratitude at Shell Beach,
The Rothko Chapel, Mark Rothko

I took a train to Houston, Texas
to visit the reopened Rothko
Chapel.

The train had seats wide and long
but in the observation car
the roof was windows.

You could lay on the floor
and take your time washing
your soul with the rushed images.

With nightfall, even the dazzle
of lighted definition conceded to
the speed of the diesel engine.

We rushed through deserts browned
to clay and hematite, sandstone
chipped by universes of insect colonizers,

cemented tunnels that delivered utter
blankness for long minutes until the
engine pulled us back into light.

In Houston, there were cabs and
rideshares and a local bus stop.
Then, there was the chapel.

They had rules of engagement,
and I shrugged and lay upon the floor
hoping the paint would shatter

the ellipsis I’d been stuttering over
through this golden ratio of cold hands.