by jdavidcharles

no mere symptom of photography
the eyes think themselves father to the world–

every color to be jotted down and indexed away,
each body to be memorized in curve and motion,
set in stone like Jacob’s dream;

and although the machines of our time reflect
our tendencies: humidifiers, carburetors,
or timed coffee pots, these

cannot be reduced to “tendency”
anymore than mind to language
or desire to rose petals.

“a lust for life” or “masculine temperament”
no excuse for those whose eyes never sat so low
to see what St. Francis saw,

keeled-over singing the songs of birds.