they say the painting of a man’s eyes shows
the nature in which he sings, and that,
what he cannot say in words is shown in the
colors of his iris, pupils, lashes. they say the
portrait of the human, when done well and
with feeling,
the viewer is shown a life they have either
never lived, have lived, or
forgotten.

they say that, more profound than the portrait
of the eyes, is the painting by the painter,
the colors do not show a man but instead
the artist, and they say that when they paint
a man they feel like they are masked.
“here is a beautiful woman,” they sign, and
behind it, “here is how i feel.”

but there are always lies and lists that
painters, despite a mask of color, cannot
for the life of them
paint into eyes or glasses or
faces or lips, hairs or skin or sweat,
blood spit lashes, nails, wrinkles, folds,
cloths, glass, — cannot for the life of them,
because they, cannot for the life of them,
see it on themselves in the first place.