Self-portraits of the new dark age are lonely
for the hand that holds the camera, the one
we never see. It is out there. On another
body, the one we live in, the one that floats
an ache here, an eyelash there, our fingers
drawn out of their hinges. Over the keys.
I am coming for you, hand, wherever you are,
whatever you suffer, you in the margins
of the movie that says we must be moving,
if not moved. Was it you who claimed
the face in the light of the liquid crystal
waits only for the blackout to emerge?
I am holding out this camera for you, hand:
this plunder, this gift, the kind you give back
the way a wave gives back to the shoreline
or a small night boat to the open sea.
You will know me by the light of my study.
Take this shot, love. No, farther. Farther.