He used bitumen
to the “detriment of his work.”
Some “moonlights” never dried
but great darkness never dries.
It still licked the cup of bone
behind his brow,
even when he faked himself
and oiled the light
of his silver impasto,
which floated black vaults of trees
above the crazed surface of pools
where the moon came down
to bathe its master.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 10 Number 10, on page 47
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