A Technical Problem
It is a time
(as any other time)
of men deprived of razors
with their faces in the paper.
Of children, all heads and ribs -
and women, breasts and limbs -
who raise their
arms and faces
to the lens.
It is a time of
empty boats in hungry seas,
and them spread eagle
in the gully between waves.
And you,
at first tempted
to the inky margin
of the sea,
sipping coffee side by side with me,
retreat, grateful for the distance placed
between you
and them,
by a single speck
of water
on the lens.