I grabbed from Ted a painting he wanted
to toss. Wrestled it really. He hates it.
I love it: Black on black. My bro’s haunted
by visions of eyes (like every artist)
glaring, condemning the incomplete. I
call it Shadow Dancer in the Dark—a
single contour sweeping—graceful body
center stage, slender-armed ballerina
in long ebony silk, elevé held
after lights have dimmed. Or spiral swaying
in sightless universe, arc poised to meld
with future light. Or lone priestess praying
in great night from home on my bedroom wall,
asking Loving Absorber to heal all.
Roger Armbrust
September 21, 2009
