Seeing, only seeing

is the hush that comes upon us
in the camera obscura,

round the battered
shallow bowl of a world

with woods and wind and
people seething in it,

seeing them not seeing ...

We’re the back row
of the silent picture palace,

the usherette’s torch,
the zippo spark,

the cigarette tip glowing
here in Plato’s cave.




Poems © Philip Gross