When I die I’ll miss those dreams
If so, what a miracle it is to have one,
A box of tricks, my own private camera obscura,
My own private eye, my very own splicer.
Biograph, one of the first ones
And so aptly named, silent mostly, with printed captions,
Though now and then an echo of a word.
A puzzle this, I could swear there’s dialogue
Among the players, some mere strangers,
Somehow spared my cutting room floor.
The other night the premier of the state
Made love to me – almost – before he slammed the door.
Seems this soul is a brave thing to have, so much more than me:
Echoes of the poem we kids read before we were taken to the movies
Holding our breaths, our shadows risen on the screen.