The way a painting follows you
around a room, as though part
of the artist has never separated
and how we turn to see if it watches
brings it to life, like an ink drawing
uses the muscle of an arm or a leg
or we lie back like an afternoon
heaves for breath, our chests
filled with the feet of narrowly
escaping some wonderful beast

Charles Carr
https://allpoetry.com/selfrisinmojo