Picture-Makers
Something is almost forgotten. For example,
the clipped edge of a photograph, the other
end of a lens. The four corners of this frame,
and someone
or something
casting a shadow
across your face. The next move made,
words said, the last breath taken. Your eyes
focusing elsewhere, beyond. An interruption
you’re leaning toward, and reaching for
while laughing: someone said
something now
unknown, but
hilarious at the time, or delightful. From these
details, nothing new can be made again. Half-
recalled, mainly imagined, and on the constant
verge of going no further. Of knowing more
than we can. And knowing more
than we ever do
know, or even knew
back then. How
luminous and destructive it becomes, such
remembering. Or forgetting. The fine grain
of a close-up shot, the dark-filmed world
within the camera. Then this sudden
shock of light, exposed
to blind, to find us
all over again.
