2022, 30”x 40”
The Old Guitarist
A spider sees me. More than one. Minding my business on a cool morning, I pass before them oblivious. Covetous eyes watch me in the morning sun.
It is prey. It is not. This blood corsage. A leg shifts imperceptibly and stifled instinct shudders the web. In Chicago, someone dims the lights on The Old Guitarist.
We are lost in the heat of particulars. He and I. Believe it. Our outsized prey elude us, his sanguine, mine a falling lodestar
beyond the filament of my vision. There even seems a rippling there, as if a wind is kicking up among the uncarnate, despite the collision
of two so thrown together, so beguiled by circumstance. Here in the crucible garden, with the Black-eyed Susans and sun, the day is done, the shadow is passed and thick has the web got, shrouded by chance.
