Saturday, March 10, 2018

Photos by Nan Goldin


The faces look so holy, so guilty,
Imbued with hues of blue,
But what they do, so angry
With finality, whatever suffering
They possess isn't there.

It’s in their eyes, with lip caught
Hanging mid-thought, hair
As it’s pulled back taut.
It overwhelms the streets
And rooms and piers
Like lights on chandeliers.

One wants to cradle instead what rots away,
Some dated monograph, some player
From the 50’s, some image
Of what stays, what never breathed
Our air, or made us disappear.

The gesture that cancelled is sweeter
Than the eye that never ends.