A world peopled with images,
what else would a painter paint?


Being’s joinery,
it appears,

serves not
to compartment—

the screens, doors,
mirrors, frames,

space by space,


How else might a dwarf wait
near a princess, but by partitions?

Or a retainer
cross a foot
to a dog’s back?

Or decorated Velázquez
deliberate on
royal shadows,

fixed in their place,
as we look?