He photographs. I write. The same absurd
delusion, never more than half-believed,
the mild obsession of the self-deceived,
compels us to an image or a word,
arranged like plastic soldiers on the floor.
He makes the most of negatives. What’s wrong
with that? They’ll work. Enlarge them, print them, frame
the buggers, hang them on your walls and claim
you knew what you were doing all along—
as confident as when we played at war.
The line that separates a masterpiece
from snapshot is a line, and lines are crossed
a million times a day, and lines are tossed,
rewritten, lost… and positives increase.