his leda and the swan, chaos and anger, violent as rape is violent.
his roman poets, the langauge impentrabile, like all will decay.
the blue ones, with the name of the poet in that limestonemarblechalk white, god that blue, the blue of heavens and skys and praries, the blue that agnes martin was scared of.
the scrappy trashy sculptures white washed and renamed so that they maintain all the dignity of history.
god i love him
twombly, i havent thot about him in months, but now on ash wednesday, struggling for breath and calm, he comes to me.
twombly i love you.