Your friend had given me a picture of you. You look estranged,
As if your face -- a fragment of a Hellenistic vessel --
Is pasted randomly upon its glossy paper -- vexed not,
Not waved away, but taken out of the time and space, restrained
In overflowing self-containment, as if your eyes are drawn
On clay -- the eyes that can be granted only to spectators,
With lips that can be granted only to a gourmet tasting
His life in bits and not devouring it. Your repose preserves
The wholesomeness of amphora; and concealed inside, confined,
You are a prisoner, a victim of a spell, an outlier.
I see how restlessly you toss behind your hardened quietude.
I know you feel my eyes.