From the the distance of a fourth wall he flutter-paints
eyes that masterpiece, forcing you to avert your own,
fully aware your mistress’ eyes are something like the sun.

His mouth, with gold-lace interwoven formed into a whimper,
a sum of hyperbole and he is not who, but what.
Totality is never everything. There is

totality, and then there is excess. With his lips that buzz
and purr onto the rims of glasses other women’s men
at the tables that surround the mise-en-scène.

He does not belong.  Nevertheless, you know
his love is as rare as any belied without compare.