[The shutters close slowly in the camera]

[]

The shutters close slowly in the camera

Da letto, siphoning what light there

Was into the dark room, a sleight of hand,

An ampersand when we had thought only of

Subtraction, the function that form follows,

Such as the junction between what we’ve always

Known and what we still don’t, those who would

Kill to win some kind of sack race or the other sack

In the trunk, full of live chickens, then piles of

Guts for cats, and it’s not that we feel at

All gypped by light, as if light were only

On a plinth and that plinth were only

In the middle of one piazza and we were

Only in that one piazza once, then,

Then, then, then, and then again, in the sense

That what came before, the big roar of sound

Down the ravine that we still talk about,

The image of light as phantom or

Sacrifice to something we’ve forgotten by now,

As if someone could win a prize for inventing

Fullness or kindness or happiness, smack-dab

In the moment for which we had thought we had

Prepared ourselves, the four hours it took us to swim

From Sestos to Abydos, for example, what we had

Thought we would find there, for there is nothing

Besides love, inside and outside, whereupon, whereupon.