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.