After zooming out this afternoon 

that held focused possibilities like a hand

reaching into the backlit arteries of a bokeh

I filtered my reflections through your shutter

and tore off Fuji film rolls from your skin

still considering supposed leaps of faith, oh that

stupid obsession of yours, the way Wong Kar-wai 

started reading comics because he fastened moonshine to

blown-out borders of illustrated explosions—your version

of Spider Man promised correct grammar, confessed 

nonexistent dumbness, provoked strings of words I had 

to cut apart in the misty blue fisheyes of a red eye flight

just to join you under Indian mango trees overexposed Nikons

cloudily burned, then someone will ask who “you” is & no 

margaritas could make me stutter your name before your lens 

in the same scene on the same tripod with the same 

stupidity I conclude that there was nothing stupid 

about Spider Man, about your aperture, about afternoons 

I’ve wasted capturing your first person plural pronouns

as stupid, stupid shots.