Accepted by Mark Rothko's private room,
having wrestled with his wine-dark murals.
An initiation rite, I hear low voices trapped
behind a sealed door, let a few loose.
Sunset, the South Bank. Buskers, drunks,
and holiday-makers by the glinting Thames,
which slices deep into the arm of London.
Between Waterloo Bridge and Parliament,
one should be able to fly. Newly released,
there's Rothko, lying in a thin slate of blood.
Tourists have scattered coins, flank him
with camcorders. To their surprise, he
stands, greets me. We travel west, meet
Kensington Garden's lost boys, play hide-
and-seek in the park. 'I thought they were
fictional,' says Rothko on the walk back.
