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
from memory

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.

James Reidel

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 10 Number 10, on page 47
Copyright © 2017 The New Criterion | www.newcriterion.com
newcriterion.com/issues/1992/6/homage-to-ralph-blakelock