If one might say: I will see the moon rose, or: we hurt me at
the back of my eyes, and especially: you the blonde woman
was the clouds that race before me you’re his our yours their faces.- Julio Cortazar
I will see. The moon rose it was just the day fading the sun.
I had just started to wear glasses convinced they would help me
with my photography, hopeful they would delimit the world --
cut distance between eyes and the lenses of my camera.
Though, I have yet to see anything new. The world is the same. Though
now the trees have more limbs than you would expect them to; They’re all
leaves and bark seeing how far they can get, new angles at the sun.
And a woman smokes a cigarette and I see, as she drags,
the cigarette breathing her in and the smoke that leaves her
is a part of her body--some exhausted piece of lung--she knows
she can never get back. And I have always wanted to be someone
who smoked. The beauty of holding in what you will have
to give back. Being Belmondo or Bogart for all the time it takes
the smoke to clear, the world you can’t see marked in the way
the smoke moves before it is lost in the hidden labyrinth of the sky;
the paths the wind makes from stasis; no thread to drag it out of itself.
The smoke follows her hand a short-term memory of her motions: time
wrestled between her index finger and middle finger and then gone.
A dog walks along the quay and looks into the river
like it is all the water he has ever seen and his tongue is drying
in the sun. If only he could look inside, turn his eyes and see the
lakes in his body--the reservoir that is his blood. His body so drenched
on the inside. There is so much water inside him. If he knew,
he would never need to drink again. Kneel next to him and tell him:
I will not forgive the way we hurt me. He will know what you mean.
At the back of my eyes I am reconciling my eyes.
In storefronts, mannequins are badly navigating the uncanny valley.
You must spend the light carefully: Remember how Antonioni took too many photos
and ended up with a movie.
Forget about still-lifes because the sun is moving and doesn’t want to be caught.
Instead, remember still-alive: how Tolstoy would epigraph all his jounal entries
Which might as well be true because it is beautiful
The day ends as you stand in the darkroom. You see my arm disappear
as you stretch it out. The room is black and smells so strong
the air feels solid. The dark buzzing static is a certain softness
you decide is simply not knowing how far away the walls are
and how far the world is and especially how far you are. And you know
the woman, the one who was smoking. The blonde woman, was the clouds
that race before me: and you are his, our, yours, their faces.