I am trying to capture him on paper,
as if he were one of my poems,
but he has an acrylic way about him,
chemical and resistant,
more like a painting than a page of words.
Da Vinci could have easily painted his portrait,
have his colors sink deep into canvas,
making him Mona Lisa's equal.
And to put his body, his gestures
to words would be useless.
He moves like dripping paint,
abstract yet technical as gravity.
But when I picture him
my hand forgets all common sense.
It follows my thoughts,
Instead of his face,
and a page of admiration appears before me,
turning me into a lover,
not a poet.