Francis Bruguière, [Cut-paper Abstraction], c. 1927
Toned gelatin silver print, 17 x 19.1 cm
Image courtesy of the Getty Open Content Project
October, & the roses lose their season.
The fragrant things fall & wither,
petals of soft blood scattered
along wind-kissed pavement.
Tonight, the neighborhood is flooded
with starlings & their sweet racket,
dark clouds flitting
between recent trees. A slow bend
in the supple branches,
the outspread hand I extend
to this autumn night’s black teeth.
//
We stroll through an autumn night’s black teeth,
& he speaks of low-wage jobs & savings.
His anxiety crawls between my lips,
& a wave of tar slaps at my stomach’s
crimson lining. From within a veil of stale
air, he faces the street of redlined houses
& voices possessive desires.
//
Even the voice possesses desire—
birdsong. The poisoned starlings’ racket.
Mote of black silence between myself &
this strange man. If I could gather a field
of broken hours; if I could cleave wind
with these long hands; if
what lay between us were merely
bad air swept into blunt crescent—but it is
October, & the roses have lost their season