She is confused
by the too much,
the too little,
daunting diversity
of the light merchants.
Slender curvaceous ones that fit in the palm,
bulbous ones with fine optics that zoom
from luminous dream
to scenes so literal
they scream "Too real, too real."
Ones durable enough for ten thousand
exposures of a daughter’s face
also transform flowers
despite comforting viewfinder
into dissecting ravages of objective.
The notion of optical infinity
well known to her occipital cortex
fills the rest of her brain
with fears of what the converging lens
may converge upon.
But they long only to be held by her,
to catalyze, corrupt & cannibalize
with plots hatched in their provincial romance,
where only to white noise can white light dance
round & round light-locked in its light-tight domain.
The iris-narrowing, bellows-bellowing
heavy-sighed diaphragms,
miserable clutter of shutter
unmask silent & tortured apertures
that ape memory’s delicate gates.
See how they woo,
declaim with kisses of light,
think their view most pure,
yet bargain desperate as night
for specks of her carnal eye.
(c) dark 1997