Apr 3, 2010

Sepia Photograph

There is a picture of you that I took with a throwaway camera and when it came back from the photographer’s shop you looked back at me in the photograph with sallow eyes. Your lips were kind of set in a half-frown. You were annoyed that I had taken your photograph, but your eyes still politely looked at the lens; for I remember taking the picture;

you were sitting in a white tee, at your desk, resistant and sensual as usual;

I was just something to fill in the void, nothing enticingly interesting in of itself —
your face proclaimed your own banality,
as you put it:
a sputnik hovering over the earth with all of your connectors pulled in,
emitting no signals, circling round and round the world
looking down on the planet abuzz with life and you have no part in it —
not that you would not like to stoop down from your celestial bier and dance a bit
but your photograph speaks of no such obsequiousness —

set askance on the kitchen table I look at you again
and you say no words — the sepia gradient of the print speaks enough —
and I know you are not supposed to say anything — for you are not
capable of profundity,

or maybe it is because I have grown tired of you and wish to discard you.

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