Chiaroscuro

is no fly, however sharply rendered.
But tell the man behind it who feels
the shoo-fly brush of the living hand.
Lean closer, and you can see the hairs
of his cuff-line flutter. You can blow
the wish from a candle with a breeze
like that, send a contrail through the canvas
to the great unknown. And why not.
Now that night has fallen down his back,
the man appears more desperate to be noticed,
as handsome as a torch in the woods.
The fly too. So close to life, it crawls
the margins, rubs its hands, cleans its eyes.

*

If you are looking for the man who gave
our champion a sword, look no further.
You see his face laid across the severed
head of Goliath. A self-portrait then,
eyes glazed, jaw drawn down, tongue curled.
Call it drunkenness or awe, the look
that lingers, the expenditure of prowess
that overcomes a monster slain by such
a beautiful boy. And we know the head
is blind, the boy the image of the painter’s
lover. But death is not finished with us.
Which is why we return, to find there,
raised up above the shade, the dire call,
the drool of the trophy, the silent roar.

*