One Possibility of the Super-High-Resolution Photograph
We hope to be photographed by satellites
while waiting at the bus-stop
just as we look up
at a small bird in flight completely
unaware of how we’ll end
in prestigious museums
for it will have been early
the sun still rising seeming to grasp
our lips and chin
so that our surprise
within a slight but palpable grin
will seem understated ––
posed –– whereas the bird we saw
will have been suspended
out of sight beneath a branch
and we
almost certainly fully aware
of the gathering museum crowd
and confused at having been seen
from so far above
will pick out perhaps this girl
in slack clothing at the back of the crowd
coming towards the front.
By the time she gets there, the museum
is closing and we are alone. She presses
her fingers against the glass pane,
imagines reaching through
to take my hand into hers so that I can guide her
across the street: She wants to talk
about this century: the steel,
the plastic, the crude oil,
these nouns that are all so exotic;
what to cook that evening,
whether we need anise
for hummus, garlic
for toasted baguette; and the big war
in South Eurasia – would that be the right period?
She’s so curious; and what did that tiny smile once mean?
She goes home to lie in bed, and dreams:
She and the man cross a meadow with grass up to the waist,
with reeds and a stream in the middle. Stepping forward,
they startle a flock
of brightly red and pink-mottled birds into flight.