Chiaroscuro

Almost
a blizzard; light following
dark, dark following light;
shadows after bright after
shadows. Interplay
of blinding then dimming
then nuanced then black,
and back to nuanced and then
to gray, to blinding.

A painter
growls at his canvas and flings
his brush away — cannot
get it right; it’s all too much.

Goes
to drinking, goes to
whoring in dark rooms and
closes his eyes, his false eyes,
against a woman’s touch.

Almost
a storm; light following dark
into nuance into blinding and back;
he loses himself in it. It is nearly
sacred. He cannot tell anyone.

If
it gets worse, if he fails at capturing
it, he might switch to music or poetry,
even. Why not — every art
has its problems, its great
obscurities. Maybe he will take up
politics or become a man
of consequence, once he gets
an interplay just right; once he understands
a meaning of it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T