Turning to face in this direction, missing pretexts, burning
through violet contact hisses, drips, collapses;
blinks for a moment and the room cools,
these eyes which are fixed now upon us
belong to the soul of sleep, the oil painter
bare-handed, mad with pigments cadmiums linseed
sketches of bacteria in his notebook, self-portrait of a virus
answering his own questions, reading his own answers
coughing and grumbling heaving and shaking
there is sweat on his forehead
just a little movement of the eyebrow
Smoke rising from the nostrils
curling and rising
about the eyeglasses their simple wire frames
and larger complaints
He's watching us from a table
at a café across the street,
planning violence or
landscapes
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