. . . place, where violence is rife, at the boundary of that which escapes cohesion . . .
Groundwater seepage forms these silty pools. But to make an image
there must be a fool
who looks in.
A graininess smudges the eye’s objectivity—a little confusion, fused with
mud’s passivity, crucially slick meanings slip.
The thrill-rub of such intimacy is always accommodating
erasures. Not pool as a portrait—
its graininess needs to ruin memory as containment, just as any product
to cultivate its own demise.
A water strider travels the pool’s current, just as image rides the slight
inversion it is
making of time—a little echo-jet
compulsion to divert the weight of logic.
Take my hair, my hands—I accept this theft
irreducible to reflection, my borne-up-to-the-surface intensity is only a
bubble of air I
release, to die into its own element. As any recognition,
borne up from the depth to surface’s intimacies,
will be lost. Wisely, a water strider darts, as if several of herself, into every
at once, away from my hand—just as it is
the potential of any image to deceive
my eye, singular
as the slowness of recordable time.
How to scatter the stilled-death specificity of appearances, to be
anonymous as every
I would permeate.
Because she can consort at once with every direction, the water strider,
like the image,