he paints to see her eyes

early footsteps in
morning fog
pillow still heavy
with his dreams
creaking veranda to
rising stairs
third floor atelier
light creeping hesitantly
into the studio
luminous waves
float over
washed brushes in mason jar vases
bouquets of potential
flora fauna faces fractals
considered with black coffee
before the memory fades
the artist began to
paint us again this morning
the happenstance couple forever in orbit
hiding in steamer trunks and
attic corners of his conscience
our emergence
the result of a rum filled evening
a nicaraguan cigar
reading yeats while
drinking like hemingway
shoebox memories
old postcards from his blue period
penniless painter
weeping for us
on a bed without the heart for sheets
the season too advanced for denial
oil upon canvas he depicts
the existence of us
to confirm his own brush stroke
easel facing the windowed city
he begins with the clean street lines
awnings to offer us shelter
slanted perspective
i become her
and the way she walks in heels
always the dress
with black pearl buttons
red hat
he knows every inch of me
the curve of my hip
his creation
clover honey soft
encountering you
white linen suit beautiful
coming round the corner
smoking an opposite direction cigarette
your beard now silver
with time and wisdom
as we had no plans
to be alive
unwilling resurrectants
it begins to rain paint drops
the denizens of the past scattering
we remain
becoming watercolored
he finds a touch of yellow to the iris
turns my eyes the desired amber
a stare foretold in tea leaves
he cannot help but place us in this
moment of time
a thousand paintings enshrined
homage to the
perfection of initial infatuation
before the dichotomy of reality
the first glance
the beginning of us
the end of him

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