Who will do it, who
will sketch who I am
not just any

woman with skin
and hair and a figure
eight, ten, like this, like that

but lifelike? The dreamer
perhaps, who is looking
around vaguely, letting

my image sink in before
he begins to draw; his hands rest
in his eyes, his look is soft

no searchlight
that bleaches me and lights up
less than it blinds