January 17, 2009
An Old Photographer Gives Up Dear camera, today we are glaucoma. Better now to use you in some other way: paint you for the suffering, walk you like a broke dog, give you to the Slav reporter. I cannot hold you any closer, stand to hear painters tease money from seaside faces: noose you around another neck, sink you with stones in your pocket, cut your lens deep, leave you in the tub. We have seen so much black and white, have toned and contrasted. I never thought it could get so dark. I would take you with me but I cannot see to shoot, cannot wait till milk develops; half clear, half white, cannot half-watch the while pass.
<originally published in November 2007 in V: An Anthology of International Writing From Edinburgh from Edinburgh University Press>