No one painted
flesh
like Lucien Freud:
I work
up an impasto
rich
with assurance
mold it to forms—
I do it urgently;
I do it
boldly—
I do
make the body
mine
as once you gave
grandfather
a piece of your mind.
Dreams beg for interpretation;
I want
sinew.
I wish portraits
of people
not like people;
the people
is paint.
James Penha edits The New Verse News.
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