It seems I've mastered posing,
the deceitful practice of photography
and staying in front of the artist's keen eye.
I've also mastered speech, grasped
nuances of despair and the necessary
arm-flailing to make myself believable.
No worries about aging, no fears
of splicing scenes into another world,
I'm left with only one question:
When will your eyes lift, film me as old?
I never expected to look this way,
neck rough and snakelike, legs
hairless as a Sphynx cat.
Does love only see love
through a special Shakespearean lens?
Now I realize that's one question—
much too hard to frame—
gently set aside for another shoot.
