The Walrus - - CONTENTS - By Nyla Matluk

The lens that is love points at us, we wan­ton and heart­less.

It shows more and less than our­selves, a depth of field as ar­rival.

Some days are cap­tured as as­pects of weather limn­ing all the old joy in ideas.

Now a glassy start stands for what it means to be close to our in­ten­tions for the de­sign of a unique pal­pa­bil­ity rather than the aw­ful re­verse: a pal­pa­ble de­sign on our as­sorted selves. We don’t ex­pect any­one to spend time on our shut­ter­ing or con­sider it the act of a god. That bird with a fan­tail, when will it bloom? Know­ing each feather is a minis­cule vi­bra­tion in air, like a painter weigh­ing each feather painted on a can­vas of brush strokes, the fab­ric of a mas­sive im­age of us is ren­dered quick on the wing, be­gin­ning with a robin vis­it­ing the imag­i­na­tion.

The door is closed, opened— flooded with light, with too much of ev­ery­thing. The cap­ture, a ghost. That pres­ence in the na­ture we’d ne­glected said it was our­selves we feared most.

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