Obituary for a Photographer.
Nymph for the noon drunks, a bottomed-out chair, hair like pencil
shavings down to the false rib. A bird falls molting and cracks the
cement-- you lift your black lorgnette, your eye behind the focal
shutter bezzled by your disease, your white feet swell through the peep
holes in your shoes, the afternoon laps you along its feed-dogs as you
toy again with the release.
One eye wanders, wanders off even under the monitor of the mirror.
Daily you shrink deeper into your scapulae spreading a budding canopy,
your face now and again veiled by your instrumental hood when the
monthly haunt of a syringe's bevel chills your sclera. The days are
hazing into a blue color filter, a painted alley wall. I lose sight of
"Someone is smoking cigarettes down through the filter," the
neighbor insists. I looked and they were there, scattered at your window
like wrist bones. Sometimes did you skip out through the gravel's
tisk, escaping into a gusset in the moss stitched darkness to strum the
striker wheel and feel the small heat of the last glimmer that was
clouding over? This morning the blind was shut.