Clipped pinions and counting

Kid-skin leather on crossed calves

- is that Al Pacino in the distance?

Stalked legs and lorgnettes,

tallying under his breath,

like Van Gogh, and his pistol,

counting his steps,

marching out into a meadow

to duel with himself.

Painter on his way from work,

before the callow night

is drawn over in a bonnet,

breathes in the red fields of Arles,

or later, Florentine,

he plunges like a scree,

down the steep steps of a campanile,

an asper fiction snapping at his heels.

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