You're going on about Hidden Mothers
in daguerreotypes and how in the masked world
we are holding onto our own shoulders . . .
tap dancing the frames . . . (I don't know
what brought this on . . .
maybe the painted streets
maybe the instructions for re-entry
maybe the confrontations) . . .
A steam train on YouTube argues a grade . . .
a respite? . . .
then something about dropping sand
for traction
as if we too could gain a foothold
from a similar application
and wince ourselves into a newer normal . . .
The birds in the tray feeders outside
remind me of the flying saucers
in War of the Worlds
the matinee my mother in her housedress
took me to in the summer of 1953 . . .
Did Orson see this coming as well? . . .
