Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

January 15, 2014


You show me images of myself
and I can't tell you how they make me feel
even more remote. They make me unfeel:
stretched so far between then and now
I am more translucent than thin silk,
and just as wrap-able 'round things:
a sunburnt pennant, a lost scarf tossed
by walkers across the nearest too-high
limb of a tree many years ago, needled
by a decade of pine rosin and dead twig.
I feel that tattered and gone in images
of myself, it's all I can do to offer the
mildest retort, rather than shout loud
my gut response, Get away from me!
By that I mean, save yourself, be free
of me, that I should not even be there
in your photographs, but somewhere
closer to the un-navigated territories
of myself, somewhere in the wild,
beyond image and indistinguishable.

Posted by Delire at January 15, 2014 12:09 PM