The Eyes of the Artist

You would not meet the eyes of the artist; 

strange, forbidden men, you are aloof 

In your wrappings of rabbit's fur and 

Privilege; your own little cloud of 

Averted gazes, washed in the pearly 

Candle-light skin tones of the young 

And wealthy. 

Sometimes it seemed as if 

That scrutinous gaze would never relent;

Those pale eyes burning you 

Between measured brush-strokes 

Counted out like golden coins;

But infinite, 


When you cast off the furs

For burial robes, and break 

That union sealed between wintery hands,

The scrutiny continues, bridging the longing gap 

From behind glass cases,

From across history;

Head bowed forever

In reluctant submission. 

The End

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