The supersaturated image: take the angle of a minor apostle’s elbow in The Last Supper, move around the painting with your eyes shut and imagine you can spear verbatim the folds of the apostle’s cape. Tell me where each paint flake is about to detach as a piece of jigsaw—now describe it. That’s it. We may all have a bit of mind’s eye, but a few mind’s-eye fortunates have a lot. They can tell you how one apostle stretches and looks away while another, with exacting brow-trajectory, holds a finger to the sky and whispers over his shoulder. Sometimes you can’t tell gossip from admiration. I don’t remember if they’ve started eating yet, feasting on brown circuits and spreading golds. I’m not a mind’s-eye fortunate, I’m pretty sure I’m what they call mind’s eye blind. A fortunate can play the moment like a movie shot through a magnifying glass, and keep on going reels into the plot. How can I talk to somebody who has the eye? It matters to me that one apostle might be chewing in deep satisfaction. Is there a half-halo somewhere? Whether or not this sumptuous grief fits any forehead—