Eye’s an Artist, Mind Works with Its Own Two Hands

By this age at least I know this

as I see you glide across the restaurant floor and sit

in front of me for the first time

how this part is nice, wipe

of slate, canvas blank, my mind, my eyes

on something so new, you

could be anything and I am feeling

so kind I will let you and the manifold you contain

take up the whole room. Here.

It’s the least I can do. Since I can feel it

starting already, your long arms and the way you grab

your own hands when you laugh,

your glance back at me when you

head to the bathroom, still chewing a little,

your fork left so freely beside

your knife on second glance become

flung. How next time you walk toward me I will see the swing of your step

before your heel even hovers, already

paint you pulling your chair back out

with a careless scrape, let your empty frame sliding back into your seat

take on the weight of my creating

what’s there and underneath like warm clay

I’m guiding up and down your wire-wrought outline of a torso,

limb, intention, filling all the holes

so you take shape. While you just sit there, just you

for the last time, sailing out toward the horizon over a plate. How very soon

on the sidewalk, through my doorway, to see you walking behind me

I won’t even have to turn around.