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
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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