103. Pentimento

Reflections paint the night;
streetlamps are overlaid with
my tired eyes –
when had the night been so
unsure, and shifting?

Things were so simple;
there were just – images.
Light, sound, smell, touch –
left to the mind, it is a
frightening chasm, there is
so much uncertainty.

I no longer know if I am
a reporter, a portraitist;
if I am supposed to
capture these scenes, or
alter them and place
this pedestrian here, or
make it rain, or
take the moon away.

Or if I must capture the
impressions on the impressions,
and interpret them, or
manipulate them.

Things were so simple
when we could watch the world
like a work of art.
When we caught butterflies
and observed how wonderful
they were, rather than
failing, time after time,
trying to capture something
we could never
know.