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of the Artist's Husband
He rises darkly out of the luminous cloud
of his blue shirt. A flare of airy blue
escapes and penetrates his left temple,
sneaks inside the boundary of beard,
plays in his eyes--or is it his own
lightness fills the shirt with
light and air? His laughter?
For though he looks about to speak,
teeth parted, eyes intent,
I think, for him, speech
is a kind of laughter.
His collar cracks out on all sides,
as if his head burst through the shirt
(perhaps to surprise the room)
into these shifting green and violet shadows,
perhaps his aura, for he seems among familiars,
among his own creations, as if saying,
"Here, have my face, my colors; see
how easily it's done? Show me yours!"
October 5, 2002