right hand pointing



  Danny Birchall

Brakhage's Lens

Only when I saw his tree the tenth time twisting
in anamorphic fury, light whittled to its charcoal bones,
the sky torn open without sound or story,

photography's neurosis, relentless concentration
on the object's aspect, skewered in its plane,
the three reels discarded, failures, then I understood.





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