Abraham

And then underneath the black strip on the canvas is
a small light. I used to think the black strip was the

actual painting. Now I think it’s what the black strip
is covering. The covering is impossible. No matter

how wide the strip is, light shines through. Some
vistas just do. Barnett Newman threw most of his

paintings away. Because he thought they weren’t
good enough. Most critics didn’t like his work.

Most writers want to be loved by light. The same light
we try to cover. So writing is regretful to do and also

not to do. I always chose language’s black stretcher
over everything else. Language has morals. Time does

too. Writing is like pressing grief from the inside and
the outside at once. So that you end up touching

your own fingers. Newman’s black strip is resistant
to everything. Which is why everything is there,

gathering underneath. A guarantee of minimum
blues. Some days I think poems are measured

by light. Other days I think they are buried by it.
Sometimes I think poems are resistant to force.

It’s possible that poems are resistant to children. It’s
possible that poems are resistant to words.