a color of the sky shot and framed

drive along the road, maybe rather quickly, with the wind
and the background blurred with speed, comes his voice
narrating the hills over which his fingers are gliding, hovering
on her skin, small moles that make for the clumps of wood,
her eyes glinting blue and wet from the morning or something happier:
the bright spots of oceans being seen. and with the crush of an allegory
a blackout of the screen.

we begin again with the telephone and its receiver's coils,
tracing the source, this time unseen, and the message, unheard,
we jump-cut it, two times, or three, never a body, always the line
being moved. we'll set up the camera in front of the porch and point it
out across the field, and while he talks about sexual trees, we'll have nothing.

on spring and frailty and skies and baby leaves we place a human,
a small one, but a menacing giant to the blossoms she is tearing up
in the grip of her tiny, chubby hands. track the shot to the raw petal fragments
falling, and remain stationary, watching inexperienced destruction.

i do not know what to do with MEMORY LOVES TIME and vandalism,
the metaphysical highway graffiti. bold and black on white? or ignore it altogether?
there is not enough music in our narrator's voice, so let's not try to revive him and fail, let's drown him,
stream radio noise in the back until he asks us if Time loves Memory back.

to which we white-out, and maybe the residue of the contrast will stay,
let the viewer see what we mean if we mean anything at all.

for the dream and stained sheets i see slow-motioned puncturing, but it's hard
to traipse the line without falling into the grotesque (human flesh) or the comedic
(lemon) or the expected (spilling the wine glass). i want melancholy, simplified.
something mundane and rhythmic, rarely observed, like the imprints on skin
as you take off your knit sweater, pink, worn in, not very young.
close-up on you, your skin. slow-motion the way you feel.

the end, the middle, the brick wall--these will be
filled with the shots of you in bed--and the injustice
is the birthmark on your body, which you've always talked about
but haven't yet shown to me. this, you'll show me.
and everything will be backwards, i've decided, from this point on.
everything will be in reverse, and as the dogwood is losing
your sweater will return to you and your skin, your hair
falls down from your pony, your sheets will have recovered their monotony
as you leave them. the flowers you had torn will be restored to their sky,
and after we leave with our cameras, they will fall
naturally, a peaceful, unobserved death.

we go in the tunnel, and it is black, right, and literal, straight.
the viewer might not know there is an image, but there is,
and it is moving:
and from the radio we come back, out of the noise,
with last summer's song.





[http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/171303]