Sep 152010

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.