If you ask him he will talk for hours-- br how at fourteen he hammered signs, fingers br raw with cold, and later painted bowers br in ladies' boudoirs; how he played checkers br for two weeks in jail, and lived on dark bread; br how he fled the border to a country br which disappeared wars ago; unfriended br crossed a continent while this century br began. He seldom speaks of painting now. br Young men have time and theories; old men work. br He has painted countless portraits. Sallow br nameless faces, made glistening in oil, smirk br above anonymous mantelpieces. br The turpentine has a familiar smell, br but his hand trembles with odd, new palsies. br Perched on the maulstick, it nears the easel. br br He has come to like his resignation. br In his sketch books, ink-dark cossacks hear br the snorts of horses in the crunch of snow. br His pen alone recalls that years ago, br one horseman set his teeth and aimed his spear br which, poised, seemed pointed straight to pierce the sun.