for Clara, Mark, and Anselm
This film is a fine actress, for we cannot
recognize
Ourselves. The startle response aside, we cannot
turn
Both ways at once; we cannot return
At all. This film is in our way.
This actress is another story, we cannot recognize
The narrative we had ascribed. The startle
response is almost
Unavoidable. We veer a bit anyway, hoping
To turn again, to find the narrative we lost.
We admire the potential of the curtains, which is
somewhat
Evident. We admire the aftertaste
Of the dream, which is neither evident nor
potential.
We admire the heaviness of fact.
The details will all come out in the wash, a
sequence
Of “as ifs,” glass shards, the idea of evidence as
a finite something or other. A finite hunch. A
finite omission.
Any way the story ends. The story is in our way. The narrative we lost. The story ends.
