Self-Portrait at 38

Hair still Titian, but Botticelli's grip has loosened— not now Rubenesque, and probably never; Ingres approaches, but Courbet might capture me. Could I be surreal? It seems almost likely— bells in my ears and fortresses under; cones have been set on my eyes. My spring is gone and summer's upon me, rude in its ripening. I'm espaliered, strung wide and tied, pinioned, and thus can I fly.