a clock uses birdcall
to fulfill its duty of
proclaiming hand-swept time.
listening to music,
the synthesizer is
incongruous,
discordant, to
mechanized birdcall.
i blame it on Time.
a friend is a new father,
he sits in a chair
with his newly born baby.
baby sleeps, newborn
father smiles. he
wears glasses,
the father, and
i use my own sight
to admire his
dedication
to vision.
a terror and
a joyous burst
travel along the same
fault line. both
enter and then
leave us quaking:
i know no better way
to describe a photo of
a newborn holding
a newborn.
a smile. eyes,
held by
encouraging correction
of lens.
my 71 year old mother
whacks at interval,
chops at wood.
she is outside splitting
her heat.
i am inside
with tea
in a leather recliner.
its framing made of wood.
outside, the sky
is now blue.
as it always is.
i should say,
“outside, the sky is
unmarred by cloud”.
i should say that a friend visited me,
earlier on a dock.
he, remarking that
“bright sunshine is not
a favorite of
the photographer”,
what with the penchant
for overexposure.
the exuberance of
a focused sun.
i should say that
i laughed and agreed,
though the overexposure
i had in mind, did not
pertain to aperture and
camera lens.
you see? i do this
frequently, a device
to try to mask
my desperation.
you see?
sunny days overexpose
a mind that sees itself
more kindly in dim striation.
who can see
—is it you?—
in all this light?
zakschafer.com 