Cy Twombly died earlier this year, a fact which makes me sad
because I'd intended to write him, to tell him how much I enjoy
his scratchy drawings and his big, splotchy paintings.
His work makes me smile to see how the marks exist on
the page, apparently just for their own sake, defining the space
in which they live, supporting each other.
In spite of their titles, they don't portray things so much
as they are just themselves, dancing across the page.