Flight of the Tripod

Fall 2010

I shouldn’t tell a story that ends this way,
but it seems I ought to,
since the faces on these films don’t know
about the sand on our shoes,
which says I gave you the script of
the words I cannot say.

There are photos—of me, and not you,
my eyes open and green—
which you ought to frame with glass and sturdy sand.
The image is this:
We exist, even when once you’re gone.
But, it seems that you might wish to wall us up,
as if we’re to stand still and framed,
not acting at all when you’re away.

Once you’ve gone far and long enough,
we’ll tell the story on the frames—
though it’s one we’d rather ignore.
You were holding the camera, reeling the film,
and shouting the director’s commentary.
You were outside the frames,
boxing us with ungloved hands,
holding us still and silent,
suspended as you set the tripod.
Without you here, we say action,
and the camera still sees it as it was:
us without you.