G.W. Robinson, Winter Scene, Storm Clouds., c. 1870
Albumen Silver Print
Digital image courtesy of the Getty's Open Content Program
And now to address myself. Or rather to address the part I hold
up to the light. How does it keep on. How does it allow itself
to perform. Chocolate, geranium, swimming pool. The pause
at the end of the day when nobody speaks. Plans still spill out
even if they remain undone. As if there was a sky’s worth
of time left, the clouds not hindrances. The clouds not omens,
precursors, whether dark or low. The clouds reshaping, thunder
dragging continuous like a jaggedy pen. Holding it up to the light
to see inside or through. As if it were a negative of something
good. A backwards sheet, a fold of vellum or lace, an actual place
to locate things. A peephole, a miniature Tiffany lamp. I have a cramp
from trying to see. It doesn’t stop the wonder. A lens. A part of my thinning,
transparent heart. Small as the head of a pin or a housefly’s wing or a star.