weekend-readsDocument; On the Photograph

Hildred Crill

Document

I was a hedged bet, just one
of the holes a rat found

and possessed, a last gulp
from the welling cup

a customer of memories
who consumed them.

I scraped the slates clean,
was the plan to encroach—

the lake would be a basin
of never ending dirt.

I opened and closed
the faucet like my own hand.

On the Photograph

They feed us silver and expose
our crossed forearms to every sun

in a day. Our latent meal
is surface, our skin

the tip of crystals, hectic life
among electrons, traveling

multitudes in a grain
—what we don’t feel

is moving memory
toward the glance.

They roll and beat gold leaf
—all we can afford,

a garnish on the outside we taste,
is not enough to poison us

but simply value hammered
thin. Gold the color? Property

of surface, says Wittgenstein.
All that glitters won’t sink in,

all the shine won’t scrub
a bone’s interior wall.

Back to top ↑

Sign up for Our Email Newsletter