Martine Studies

I can feel him drawn away from here
even as I draw him sitting at the table
or drawing his bow across the violin.

The lines unfold in my hands, a magic
on the paper, the chemistry of charcoal
and space, the shapes of wanting,

but the train tracks pull far away
into a north I do not know. I limn
the map of his loneliness, shade

the sound of going. And could I leave?
Could I paint the angles of Paris,
sell my sketches behind the cathedral?

I could follow him, but would I learn
to see through the crowds, to paint
the language of the city,

its jutting contours, glistening pigeons,
and all the strange faces
closed like doors?