Oct 16
The evening smelt onion-peels and roast
The sun slid below an unfinished house
The white ghosts had still time to return.
Pulse-beating hearts, thought-abhorrent,
Beat in the very depths of their rib-cages
In onrush of blood and oxygen-seekings.
At the other end of the beauty-spectrum
Several transformations worked technically
In coloured copies of quintessentialities.
A few frames mattered and horizons’ tilts
The artist looked for exactness of science
Capillary details appealed to beauty-logic.
You know how we seek ghosts in quiet time.
Our graphic eye sought the nature of things
In white balances and still phosphorescences.
Beauty eluded while pursuing pixel- perfection.
A photographer’s quest
The city lay crumpled in a quiet cornerThe evening smelt onion-peels and roast
The sun slid below an unfinished house
The white ghosts had still time to return.
Pulse-beating hearts, thought-abhorrent,
Beat in the very depths of their rib-cages
In onrush of blood and oxygen-seekings.
At the other end of the beauty-spectrum
Several transformations worked technically
In coloured copies of quintessentialities.
A few frames mattered and horizons’ tilts
The artist looked for exactness of science
Capillary details appealed to beauty-logic.
You know how we seek ghosts in quiet time.
Our graphic eye sought the nature of things
In white balances and still phosphorescences.
Beauty eluded while pursuing pixel- perfection.
