A photograph is a dead skin you shimmy out of.
—Sarah Fran Wisby
frame this. the tart green bum of
a pear in the foreground focus; pink, just
ripe honeycrisp apples scattered
among or against a blur of orange—
wraithlike tangerines
as it turns out—a conspicuous distance away, last
year, the year before, i forget?
take
another look
next year and it’s
going to be the same.
every year, in fact, the fruit stay just as
ripe, the color, the harmony, what one imagines the taste
is or was, everything about the sanguine sight remains
) notwithstanding the various joys and tragedies befalling
each ongoing spectator (
