Photography requires light, a constructive relation to dark.
Largeness is a matter of lens;
focus, more a matter of aperture than closeness;
pattern is selection.
Recognition is like rhyme--a trick inventing familiarity.
Even wading into the lake this morning I could not coax the swans to take my bread.
They thought it more fragments torn from your letters.
I confiscated all your photographs, tied them in a bundle.
I took them to the Grove of Epona's Spring.
I placed them in a ring of stone. Burned them.
Stirred the ashes and I found a knife.
I cut my hand and placed it over the moon.
The sun bled. Tides changed.
The Appaloosa stands across the hill, lifts its head towards me, ears perked.
The distance is too far for understanding, the space untraversable.
----No further moments of synchronicity.
I want to walk and find a place not so secret
but not so much found. That is the uncommon thought of you---
a passion too spurious to wear too public,
a desire too strong to keep too private,
and a need to have all this.
Only what we reverence takes possession;
choosing to believe, we choose the prices.