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This is me. You said, "Let me paint you,"
and you did it. I didn't even have to sit still.
I kept writing, and you painted.
This is me (thinner then--I couldn't wear
that shirt now, that blue I always thought
made me look even thinner than I was), this
is exactly how I think what I'll write next
when I write,
how, when I write, all the lines in the room
angle to the one penpoint, me writing--
What did I write that day?
This was my body, beard, ragged hair,
large hands, true, but this is not
a painting of my body, but of me
as I am to me in my own universe,
looming huge, like a full-bellied sail,
embracing the breeze, my favorite books
behind me, before me a pen, a sheet
of paper, off to one side, a window,
tiny corner of the rest of the world,
and, containing me, you, your art, your
love, your knowing me.
That evening I said, "This is me!
It's me!" Then I read you
the poems I'd written and we laughed.
October 6, 2002