Can you hear, the cobbled morning streets
gathering in thick coarse hands
the staccato clang of hooves
and thin gray voices
arising from the ghosts
of people
caught in a sudden sonata?
Can you not hear,
the distance of bones,
calling upon light
in an unremembered flicker?
Photo by Josef Sudek
Considering
the slopes
of noble toil
and grave matter,
so much depends
upon a soiled
wheelbarrow.
Photo by Josef Sudek
As the steps
narrowed toward
a terrible
totemic infinity
she realized that
foreboding
hailed
from a gothic lineage
backlit
by a fathomless source.
#65 from Untitled Film Poems
Image by Cindy Sherman
Kettled
by mass
and slow-building
infinity,
solitude
begs nothing
of stone
and receives
a woman
through to which
to flesh out
its lone, fretted
hymn
and testament.
#64 from Untitled Film Poems
Image by Cindy Sherman
It was an option,
one that promised an ending—
The steps seemed endless.
#63 from Untitled Film Poems
Image by Cindy Sherman
Out here,
things were different.
The rough patches felt,
if not smoother,
then at least manageable.
This was also a place
where she could check
her dreams at the door,
and not pay them
the kind of mind
that always left her gasping for air
where little to none was available.
#61 from Untitled Film Poems
Image by John Biscello
John Biscello 