Marc André Brouillette Poems

I've never been able to bring myself to black, since
black takes up so many surfaces of the world. It
appears in front as it shifts to the rear; it spreads
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Like a widow made mute, I clothe myself in black to better feel my way to black, reducing the distance between us.
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The hand snatches the pencil and it's off! Gone the page, gone the virgin surface, gone the void. There is no shape, no note,
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In black's heart, the hope of light, black perhaps, within the black, and it keeps me present. There is a shimmer of heat, however small,
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Black repels the illusions we use to deaden the pangs of our loneliness, when the pangs of our loneliness become too sharp.
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