The painting in front of me, walled
eyed. Can’t figure you.  My cousin who
painted chose to demure.  Lidded obscure
behind your spec-
tacles.

She said - a lifetime ago - that the splotch of orange
peachy dreamed on the tips of your ears, the side of
your nose, the lip top, was sun in the studio
blasting through your flesh.  Simulacrum
blood and shine com-
bined.

flat knife
strokes elongate into rounds of skin
caress, provoke this con-
versation.