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Vermeer in Madrid
March 20, 2003

The house is dark but light through the window tells the time & brings a shine to the young woman's face & to the guitar she strokes &

you'll notice the map of the known world above the table & the lowered eyes of the darker girl who holds an empty glass &

the crafty grin of the man in black who insists on poring more wine & the clown at the window who chuckles & chortles & waggles his tongue &

in the upper room, even darker now, the doctor has come to test their mother's pulse & like the hunter with his bag of game, leaves something to remember;

maybe a pheasant-cock to be plucked or maybe he's come to deliver a letter from an admirer - who can say? But,

after all, it's the painter who has let the fruit fall on the bed & turned the death-mask face-up on the table &

it's the painter with his back turned to us who's studied the girl & her downcast eyes & the pale dog who wanders between them &

it's the painter who chooses when to open the window & where the light will go & how the night will end for the women &

the men who prowl the rooms & look for the book that will tell them & for the glass that will lead them & for the door that will open out & set them free.