The Looking
after Viviane Houle
It’s only through the looking
that the image carries meaning,
that the lines resemble ripples
in the margins of a puddle.
It’s only your reflection
staring out between the markings,
dreaming of a figure
lost in gauzy threads of cotton,
a piece of your persona
that detects an indentation
where you’d like to rest your muscles
in the softness of the object.
A length of hair that’s flowing,
or a weaver’s loom that’s sagging,
or a geyser that’s erupting,
or a knotted wad rebelling
or a self that’s busy sifting
through the syntax of the image,
and the moment of the poem,
where it sticks its recognition.
It’s only the projection
of your mind beset with language
for this image in the ether,
supple strands against the darkness.