Contemplation for beautiful things

By | 15 February 2023

There’s no sighing our way out of this — the mundanity of a flat liveable city,
long drives late at night to swing legs over the concrete aqueduct and listen
to the freeway sing. A slow breath blooms on the mirror. One thing’s certain:
mirrors are no substitute for desire. In dreams I eat the silverware, my pupils
turn into dinner plates, rivers stream down my bare arms into an overflowing
percolator. A great many changes keep occurring and I’m surprised to find
I can tolerate them all. A cloud is also other things: rain droplets, ice crystals,
a sheep; an old photograph that stares and stares at itself. Someday, I will know
what it’s like to love a beautiful thing for itself first, rather than for what my
looking transforms it into. I rise at first light and pluck a fresh roll of film from
the nightstand. My eyes are twin bulbs already flashing, becoming and becoming
and becoming. Here I go, sockless, into the garden again.

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