by Keith Moul
Waiting for shadows (the horizon absorbs the sky at noon),
the sensual kind seducing poplars’ waves, I rehearse my craft:
balance common abstractions with the unexpected red;
balance particular corruptions with enfolding blues; balance
other shadows meeting moving feet with the light of desire;
and frame all these cleverly within the depth of ironic fields.
Standing at theater exits, I resist shooting puzzled faces,
contorted faces, happy faces: I avoid unwanted intrusions,
supposing at last that there will be no enlightened faces.
Near Skykomish, slug trails denigrate my avocation.
In Rome, too suddenly a feral cat ends its stalk: I miss
its kill when again the light isn’t right. My bus from St. Louis
does not pause as a feral boy tortures beetles in the dirt:
lately, I regret my easy nature.
I inherited a need for perfect intentions, but squandered it
on categories of well-ordered images, on ordinary hands,
flawed, but gripping a handful of partly flawed transparencies.
Nearing fifty, I am ever grateful for clouds and automatic focus.