Rebecca, New York: Palladium Print:

Paul Strand: 1923

by Ben Stringfellow

 

I’m in the fold under her chin to count

blackheads one by one like worker

ants building skin from atoms, oil like platinum

melting off an orange rind.

 

Morning is careful, ultraviolet,

long salted waves of sheets,

sweat. Or a tear, evaporated,

forming clouds above us.

 

In total: it’s a wasp in a small room

Or an eye socket of a whitewashed skull.

In short: a burning stick.

 

When awake, I take the photos,

our undeveloped memories, monochrome,

passing time to keep it close

like sleeping.

 

I’ve thought a lot about:

density, intensity, the differences between the two:

the lowest common melting point of two people:

sensations of falling, how sometimes they can be a nice change of pace.