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His Hands Rest In His Eyes

Who will do it, who
will sketch who I am
not just any

woman with skin
and hair and a figure
eight, ten, like this, like that

but lifelike? The dreamer
perhaps, who is looking
around vaguely, letting

my image sink in before
he begins to draw; his hands rest
in his eyes, his look is soft

no searchlight
that bleaches me and lights up
less than it blinds
Saturday, March 13, 2021
Topic(s) of this poem: identity
POET'S NOTES ABOUT THE POEM
Collection 'Mastress'
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4/16/2021 2:24:02 AM # 1.0.0.559