Oh clear and just contained, how you whittle the world with every step and prosper, turning foot to meter, speaking word to pitter, patter moments of minutes. These places, photographs the wind once bore with a wisp and spin, a flash of light and lens, captured in a box with holes made out of pins. Sometimes bustled, sometimes light as a kiss, making images of book, the bird, a steeple. Somewhere in between, these are all the people.
What to say to the world when there’s no there? Every shush and sound a lisp? Once I walked the surface. Sat on sand and said oh you beautiful and was greeted with a shift.
I want to touch a mouth and meaning. I want to worry the words from one to another, vine them round, illume a bright green bloom inside. Where there are no hows or whys. Where there are no whos or whats. There there are no heres there there.
Rebbecca Brown teaches at Hunter College.
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