Rembrandt, in rare self-portrait as artist,
gazes at you in rapt study while you
stare back, move closer as if to assist
him; or perhaps gain clear aesthetic view
of his shoulder-length gray curls, determine
how you’d sculpt them. I love to watch your eyes
penetrate his canvas, your body lean
toward him. I wish, before guards realize
it, you’d kiss the master’s veined cheek, sense his
mouth form a brief smile. Perhaps he’d whisper,
Giotto, answering questions for
ages
of perfect circles behind him. Later,
as we munch tuna sandwiches, you gaze
at me. I speak of James, feel my skin blaze.
Roger Armbrust
September 6,
2013
