Homecomings: A Writer’s Memoir
He Portrays Himself on Wood
At the turn of the century, he placed
himself at the center of creation.
He put himself on lindenwood, to last.
As the Middle Ages turned like a spit
into the Renaissance, everything
became harmony, proportion. Nothing
in the background but a monogram.
His wavy chestnut hair fell
symmetrically upon a brown coat
trimmed with a fur collar.
Like a Christ of the north, he
looked out toward a receding world.
He raised his right hand, the one
he painted with, as if in blessing,
then placed his delicate fingers
in the middle of his chest.
He felt nothing but the steady
beat of a single heart. Pale light
suffused his face. The universe
faded like day into night.
Norbert Krapf,
from “Lines Drawn from Dürer”