The camera does what I cannot
and cuts from scene to scene,
without dull moments in between:
the endless tracking shot of life,
where each fluffed line, each mis-cued frame,
survives the edit and is enshrined
in an album of poor polaroids:
full colour, lacking noir lit drama,
or auteur's over-arching vision.
There is no soundtrack, but the accident
of i-pod random play in synch
with breath, with pulse, with daily step
upon the pavement: not ready for my close-up
as I pause by Swanson's balustrade.
