[Francis Bacon's studio has been preserved in the Hugh Lane Gallery in Dublin.] br br Where is he, the artist? br Here are his brushes, bristling br from jugs and jars, sticky br no longer with the blood and semen - br I mean the paint – long br dried on their hardened tips. br Here are the tubes from which br that paint was squeezed br by Francis Bacon’s fingers, the knives br that cut the colours on the palettes, br here are the yellowed papers, br the magazines, the long-dead records br of the grisly state br awaiting all of us. br br Here in this paint-streaked room br the artist forged and bled br his stream of musings on man’s fate. br Surely he’s just stepped out br for a drink at the Colony Room, br to buy some turps, get a sandwich br at the corner shop. br Surely – but no, this window’s to the past br and though we can look in, br no gentle reptile face will meet our gaze, br no Bacon walking the tightrope br between chaos and creation.