WEBVTT

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Then there's one that's written
with the letters split out

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apart from each other
that might sound,

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"heavy roses, heavy
roses, heavy roses.

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White noise.

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Roses.

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Heavy, white, noise.

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Heavy roses, heavy roses,
heavy roses, heavy.

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The darkness as my wedge,
petals like parentheses,

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centered clusters,
thinking stems,

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initiated from
after, planning a go.

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Their own moon in
close up light.

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After daybreak, heavy
roses, heavy roses

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will dominate my lens.

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Curve on top of curve
on top of curve.

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How wet will they still be?

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Am I to be a priest?

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A voyeur?

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A callous murderer?

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A cold lure?

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No, I am to be the father
with clear eyes blinded

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by the thin and falling
petals of heavy roses out

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of a windy night.

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I decided whether to re-angle
the most prominent rose.

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I decided not to.

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I decided that if I did trade
the shadow for the light,

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I might not be
able to get it back

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and shadow draws
out the invisible.

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I decided the container
was irrelevant.

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I decided the
background was relevant,

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but only if blocked out.

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I decided to get
even with my subject.

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I mean to say on eye level.

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I decided Stieglitz
was right when

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he said it wasn't getting
any easier for me.

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But then Stieglitz knows
how to take a picture

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and I decided to prefer my
struggle to his knowledge.

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I decided whether to save
any of my precious film

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to capture the
Germans if not if,

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but when they reached Paris
only 30 kilometers away.

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I decided not to.

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I decided whether to save any
of my precious film for Clara

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in the doorway,
Clara in the mirror.

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Again, I decided no.

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I decided to remember the rose
I drew alongside my initial

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as a signature to the mirror.

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That time, I did re-angle
her wrist and I am not sorry.

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I decided that I would
rather sleep in candlelight

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than in a darkened room.

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I decided it should be the
candles from my coat pocket

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downy with wool filaments.

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I decided that the
candle light should

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evoke a time after guests
have gone, after they have

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gone with their distractions and
the roses come into their own.

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I decided to
remember the red silk

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Japanese lanterns, that
Christmas, that first Christmas

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in Montparnasse.

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I decided that lanterns are
like a disguise for roses.

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I decided that weight
though was the gravamen

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of these roses, their truest
expression of the self.

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I decided that feeling has
an overwhelming physical way,

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doesn't it?

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Not to be confused
with sickness,

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but just as felt as
sickness, a sinking weight.

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Heavy roses I will call it.

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I decided -- call them.

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I give you need and
depth swollen as fate.

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A simile, pressure
like a gaze on a path.

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I give you a simile engorged
tense as enemy lines.

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I give you simile on top of
simile, petals, of course,

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like tongues.

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Petals like pink suns.

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Thirsty roses, the gravity
of roses after their thirst

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has been slaked.

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Their smell still
rich at young semen.

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Petals loosening second
on top of uncounted

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second, moist ridges
on top of the darkness.

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By manipulating them, I
touch an infinity of cells.

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I fight for control
through winding,

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quarreling at the
edge of convulsion,

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petals, petals, petals.

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Shoulder shape on
top of shoulders

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shape they drop,
continent after continent.

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A plotlessness
impossible to fathom

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toward the scentless aftermath.

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The simple death
I myself desire.

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24 hours later, I shall
brush their dried petals

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into a crisp little mound.

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And with my palm, a mortar
and my finger a pestle,

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crush them, crush them fine.

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By then, they will
have no longer

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to wait, no longer my
heavy roses suspended

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between mist and dust."