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Winslow Homer at Seventy-two
Broken apart in wrinkles, some
the disturbing sort that fork across
the skin without following
facial contours: the eyes
narrowed, heavy-lidded,
looking what seems a hard challenge
down at the camera, but is only the neutral
jolting energy of complete attention
long since involuntary, peremptory and defi nite
as a bolt of lightning when a branch of it
pokes into a night sky twigs and all, his occupational
iction and his happiness.