Leash. Hand. Leash. Hand. Leash.
Look at the photo. Take-a-pin+stick-it-through-the-figures. Puncture
must mar the surface—scratch the image
must get inside\
as if you could
the cement ground the narrow hall the stink.
The photo for us is
The woman is pale, strange, standing, her head to the side, holding
the naked man lying dark
on the floor, his head twisted, without name even though they call
him gus, like a gust of wind, or dis gus ting, or dust, dust he
shall be…she has a name, lynndie.
length of our own arm—to the delicate 8 wrist-bones spread of 5
fingers—the great one thumb—opposable—off-shoot of thought—
a maker’s hand—that which makes us
loose or tight—the hand holds
if by accident or the occult I (eye) could stop
the virtual ones + zeros anxiously replicating
bend back to before before
that man (image) naked on the cement ground
there were meadows covered with human skin under the Arabian moon
his skin torn scraped his face blurred with such
pain could it be
lifted out from him as if ripped from the image of his image of his image?
If re-genesis were possible if the pain itself became
a woman not holding the leash
but emptying out of herself
if only I could steal back that
inside the camera (infinite) if doing
so could eradicate
but it did happen,
the photo is there
The dark thick fabric of the underneath.
You know—and I know—it is—
within me—within you.