I am not so good at this, she says: the creaking of her hands
being wheeled behind her head, and the gears
pulling a smile taunt over
her too-life-like face, the blue eyes put flat
above wavy almond hair, the color of it
perfect inspiration, a lucky miracle that comes
from the painter staring
outside and watching almond trees bite
the windowpanes,
just as his daughter comes running into the room
saying daddy daddy look at me
and he thinks, oh yes.
look at you.
Little does he know that she
is already quite captured, staring out at him
through the mechanics,
thinking daddy daddy
I am all false. I am
just paint.
the last pavilion 