I place the open book and my face
above the street until the shadow of
the earth forces the lamp lights on, and it becomes
much blacker here in this box, this camera
obscura, the print is barely understandable
above the specter of the page, this dark returning
much of the act of reading to the realm
of the physical, although we know it is closer
to painting made not senseless but more acute
after the fact of film because the retina
is after all a wall and light stops there
and it is faith that continues,
travels the length of the optic
nerve. To correct the imbalance means
that the room would have to find
its reverse in the window and the man
who is my looking, distracted by the noise
of what goes on below, would have to lean
across his desk to touch his flat,
cold forehead against mine
so that, in the shadow of the other, one of us
might see the scenery
|
