After looking at David Hockney's Peter doing a watercolour in Italy

It's noon all week: the shadows stay beneath us, and they won't creep out, no our feet won't trip on shadows.
A line traces the crease of a collar
where it slides behind your neck, a line bends into a shoulder, bends into an arm and one hand slouched in your pocket.
Here the coy line that caught you, kept you here, a line of you on the page.
And every eye that looks on this, takes my eyes, and maybe they might almost love you the same.

But vanishing is what people do
we ride the laws of perspective,
drawn to converge,
cross, and part.

So I will bend these laws in marks I make:
you are here,
just here
where a blank page ended.

We have a lot to say about being brave.

eruss