I

Her dress
Plain black,
Pinned tight
At the collar
And hair
Tied up
Above her ears,
She sits, stiff,
Cold, quiet, patient
With the patience
Of those who wait out
Long winters
Pale, tight lipped,
Eyes like black buttons.

II

He is not here.
Rather, standing
On a shoreline,
His eyes the distant islands
Of Texel, Juist, Pellworm, Zeist,
His forehead stretched
Thin and bleached
Like the weathered
Canvass of ships
At sea, off
With cargos fast
And all sails set.
He is watching the sky.
Praying for wind.

III

Quicker
Than your hands,
These eyes are
Slip knots
Or polished
Scale pans,
Staring you down
Over the table,
Ready to clinch the bargain.

IV

Rembrandt himself.
Older, wiser,
A man of the world,
Not quick to words,
He stands in a corner
Watching the crowd
Come to see his work.

Everywhere you go,
You feel those eyes,
Looking right through you.
Arranging you on canvass.