The Painter Rearranges The Mirrors (1415) Poem by Cole Swensen

Languor. Succor. Ardor. Such is the tenor of the entry. You open a little door.
The door could be anywhere.
And laid there a face. For instance, at certain points, no longer wishing or able
to emulate Rome,
they began the year at Christmas for example or
the Annunciation or Easter in all its moving
target and borrows
from the inclination of passing
suns, seasons, moons that may or may
not occur again
(we repeat)
(because it seems)
Begin:
Here he put their faces
which were all
his.

(I rise eye by eye; I fissure plains.)
And repeat (again) (because it seems)
Begin: and whose will linger
whose wither
what king might made of mine he said. A window

is just a window looking out on a vast
delicate brush catches the ear of the sun
across the year, which, too, keeps slipping: errant prince, anchor
in the wish, a wristful of deed: I've
always
wanted
said the painter
and so he did