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.