(no subject)
II.
You cannot be evaded, because you cannot be located. A sort of shrapnel that has come to a halt. It is spring and I shut my eyes in the sun. People had set up picnic chairs near the rail to watch the fireworks. I shut my eyes in the sun. I want new habits, a new way to walk to the harbor. A photo of us appears in a slideshow, and I excuse myself from the room. The magnolias feel more urgent when they are imagined. A sort of shrapnel that has come to rest. There is something to watch even when you are not watching anything: the subretinal shapes that drift in the fluid of the eye, the eyelid turned to red. What founds the nature of photography is the pose. The first tree to bloom is already bare of flowers, though the others still hold buds. What founds the nature of photography is the pose, a sort of shrapnel that has come to rest. The fallen petals are trodden into a damp mass. You are the impurities in the air, the trace pollutants. I worry that you will come from all directions at once, by land by air by sea, entering like sunlight. I shut my eyes. The first letter in months on the day. What founds the nature of photography is the pose, which captures a physical arrangement too delicate to persevere in real life. Such as shrapnel, resting in midair. The petals that fell like battered silk. When I talk about you, I still look behind me to make sure you are not there.
You cannot be evaded, because you cannot be located. A sort of shrapnel that has come to a halt. It is spring and I shut my eyes in the sun. People had set up picnic chairs near the rail to watch the fireworks. I shut my eyes in the sun. I want new habits, a new way to walk to the harbor. A photo of us appears in a slideshow, and I excuse myself from the room. The magnolias feel more urgent when they are imagined. A sort of shrapnel that has come to rest. There is something to watch even when you are not watching anything: the subretinal shapes that drift in the fluid of the eye, the eyelid turned to red. What founds the nature of photography is the pose. The first tree to bloom is already bare of flowers, though the others still hold buds. What founds the nature of photography is the pose, a sort of shrapnel that has come to rest. The fallen petals are trodden into a damp mass. You are the impurities in the air, the trace pollutants. I worry that you will come from all directions at once, by land by air by sea, entering like sunlight. I shut my eyes. The first letter in months on the day. What founds the nature of photography is the pose, which captures a physical arrangement too delicate to persevere in real life. Such as shrapnel, resting in midair. The petals that fell like battered silk. When I talk about you, I still look behind me to make sure you are not there.