Alfred Stieglitz leaves a pear in a pin of light. Leaves it there
watched by a lens that he leaves there too—wide open like when
a child pads blind back to bed. Old photo, the image blurs like windy linen.
Blurs like bleached linen at night in porch light. The pear in the pin wilts
and puffs through an hour’s pivot on the next; of course, perhaps,
the lens is knocked by the hip of Alfred Stieglitz.
And so are you in a pin of light. Breath blurs you in a
waiting lens, or bumped by the hip of Alfred Stieglitz.
You are wilting; everybody says so. You hear them laughing
outside the blackened glass. The longer he leaves you,
the brighter you are and less so are you.
And the pin wanders with the sun. Dawns across a wooden table
and sets orangely on the sill. This, too, blurs you.
You cannot sit still enough to hold form.
Like a pear, like when the white firmament is lost in the waters
Then found again, browned, in the drought. You have
no true edge. The space you take is fuzz. You are
no more than rock, than pebble, than sand, than ocean.
You take space like bread and water. Like stale bread in water.
You took up more room yesterday.
Alfred Stieglitz will come back soon. He’s an old man;
he’s ready for breakfast. He must close the lens or the
dark will be lost in the white. He must take down the canvas
and let in the light.