Friday, December 10, 2004
This Is a Picture
This is a picture of the unrequited.
It wants you to touch it. Its torso exists
as a diagonal plane of yellow
crumbling into black: a horizon
where it turns, cell by cell, into dust.
Cropped at the neck, it yet retains
a dumb capacity to love.
For which it reprimands itself
repeatedly. Yesterday
it listened to some songs.
The songs were probably sad. Yesterday
it held a camera to itself,
but the distance of vision
intervenes whenever it tries
to depict itself. Tomorrow
it will try again.
by Jennifer Martenson
This is a picture of the unrequited.
It wants you to touch it. Its torso exists
as a diagonal plane of yellow
crumbling into black: a horizon
where it turns, cell by cell, into dust.
Cropped at the neck, it yet retains
a dumb capacity to love.
For which it reprimands itself
repeatedly. Yesterday
it listened to some songs.
The songs were probably sad. Yesterday
it held a camera to itself,
but the distance of vision
intervenes whenever it tries
to depict itself. Tomorrow
it will try again.
by Jennifer Martenson
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