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 (
