Monsieur le Blackbox

stands for an hour in a field, affecting
innocence –
                   neither quite so innocent
nor so affecting as he’d like to think:

the time, for a start, it takes to fix
one image, he takes it, but from where,
from whom? There must be less for us.    

And the daylight?  He siphons it in.
Insatiable, his makeshift apparatus –

cardboard box, time, a narrow intent
and you can build a black hole, take it
anywhere without a permit. Would you want
him in your back yard?  I am like the lilies
of the field, he says. I photosynthesise.  

He ought to get a job. He owes a lot of rent.