You take pictures in the way
that Bukowski writes-
a raw grayscale sculpting
the ugly in everything that is beautiful,
and the opposite too-
the roses and the moths.
As far as I know, you never took a photo of sun
sliding over almost flawless skin on bare thighs
and dog shit drying and graying and crumbling in the heat
by her side
as the flies lope over it for breakfast.
He never wrote about it.
But in some ways, this is what you both do.
How do I explain this better?
You make everything real.
You make me want to love.
There is disillusion in your film,
in his words.
There is no fear in being ugly-
there wouldn’t be art
The dead moths and dust on windowsills,
the pink rosa moschatas in the spring and fall.
I wrote you to tell you this
and you thanked me.
But I was thanking you.