Her Gaze

removes the singular journey
she has made. A Borgesian map:

her town overlays his city.
In his studio - cluttered, louche -

she sees children run underfoot
through failed paintings, first sketches.

He can’t see ghosts but she’s not sure
they are ghosts. She might be. Elsewhere…

he asks if she can remain still,
poised to capture her flush of scorn

he surrounds it with her boredom.
Uninterested in being

a subject. She’s perfect. She sits
for the whole hour he pays her.

She doesn’t look at the picture.