What's Going On (in a diminished seventh)

 

 

 

There is an excision at the corners of the frame,
always present in the minds of those fond of
the camera lens

Just like any other art,
you tell a lot more
by what you don't say

It's why people can't understand
Russian novels
not really
and why men cannot understand women
most of the time

Eventually you are left with tired photographs
kept fresh and clean by the cogs incessantly turning
'til you stop remembering how you felt in the picture
and start wondering whose hand is spun around a beer bottle
or why the hell girls from the past ever bothered learning your name

But it isn't supernatural,
you were just the best thing around for a little while
just as she was.
and just a moment ago she stood
the air behind her carved in white
her hand seeming to tap an invisible cigarette
the background bleeding over her chin like smoke

I can't recall anything we might have said to each other,
time's ravage starting immediately upon death of any sort
(dreaming like something out of Conrad)
the reflection in her sunglasses of a sidewalk
that slashes through her eyes

And my little brother considers becoming a white pawn on King's row
to go where the Shah demands,
three square meals a day.
and one day dropping roses on a coffin I will see his face
smiling up from a perfectly arranged shot
an old photo put into a new frame.