One looks to the eyes,
the jaw’s shape.
When a face is overlaid with questions
about solitude or unrest,
poverty or a lack of heart,
to search out moments that embellish life
a home adorned with tapestries
in a halo of candles
he who is bathed in this atmosphere
could be called priestly.
In twilight he escapes the sun,
the moon a stone that climbs out of woods
in leaden skies.
Such portraits – a painter refusing this song.
There’s no turning back, each still life
the illusion of permanence.