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?