there’s a mountain of a man
by the rembrandt, his eyes hung
open, mouth hung open,
to absorb the fumes of oil rising
like skin-warmth from the canvas.
the painting is done in dark,  
and the mix of brown-black
has a name: rembrandt mud.
it is not the warm leather
of the man’s trench coat,
or as pungent as the odor
that steams from his excess flesh.
it is earthy and underfoot,
a struggle caught between paints,
a man on the edge of
blotting out the light.