The Portraitist
across there in cold light
gazing to the passing scenes
sometimes a glance back, then
and see that I’m still staring
a striking mask, your thunderous youth
that sharp ridge of a Roman nose, so narrow
deeply fixed emerald and golden-rimmed
eyes of a shepherd at the wing
light upon an ovular range of beautiful planes
where fine skin on signatures raised
is colored the same soft red
aloft in the morning sun
and how the curve of your brow
slips to a gaunt cheek lifting
love in the stoop of those lips
cradling crescent shapes of a jaw
flexed for greatness
filing away each of your features
to a safe place inside
where a figurine of grace
will wait to be painted
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