Don’t push too hard for fidelity
because looking at a photograph
you really have no idea
what it felt like to be standing
just this side of that sky,
feet in the mud, those foot-sized
bricks framing your heart.
Avoid the light in polar places
and try to catch the drip, drip, drip
of reality disappearing just off-camera,
those eyes aged into history
while no one was looking.
When you dip roses, even roses
into the frail cold of liquid nitrogen,
“J’accuse!” they shout.
“M’amuse!” we shout back,
sometimes in anguish, sometimes despair,
as they lie shattered around us.
We are not small
And the universe vast
Just the opposite
In spring, my mother
would send us to the park
to pick linden flowers for tea.
Today, sitting in the shade,
I thought I heard her calling,
but it was only a breeze.
“There’s no time,” she said,
“Any moment now will be
the too-late moment.”
“Can’t we tell
ahead of time?” I said.
“Don’t be an idiot,” she said
“Well,” I said, “that certainly
narrows down the possibilities,
with idiot ruled out.”
“Now you’re just being a jerk.”
“What, that’s not allowed either?”
I dream of a child
Climbing a mountain
Which of them is me?