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