Flat against the far wall
of this little room at the back
of the Contemporary Wing,
you have no way of knowing
you are there, that your gaze
toward some target off-screen
is aimed at the wall on my left,
which is empty. The yellow curl
of hair grazing that jawline
I so admire looks as though it
could somehow be spun into gold
if I only knew your name. You
are curving your lips inward
as if about to face a mirror, or else
struck by a dull sense of tragedy
about to happen, and at once
I could kiss them—if not for the fact
of my body, since that which light cannot
penetrate blocks your presence... All this
just moments before the camera
must have closed its lens, and the room
darkens, though there yet remain quanta
of flickering film grain and a rapid click
as the reel continues to advance.
