THE FIFTH SKETCHBOOK
A. Minetta Gould
My mimicry is sick.
Fold your hands & hold them
near your lips—now more to the left.
Give me pause—the stylus
is stuck & I cannot work
around such a scratching.
Can you see my eyes
dart with the trembled lines
under the earth of glaze?
Each dust of pencil needs
more layers. I study
my own face & shoulders
in the mirror. I need
to shine my shoes. Your arms are tired.