The Dark Opens
Miriam Levine
2008
Order the Book
Amazon | IndieBound
Under the Magnifying Glass
Miriam Levine
In Atget’s photos some people dissolve in long exposures.
A white blur tells me someone was there and disappeared.
But under my magnifying glass I can make out the wisp of a girl,
dress like a crumpled flower, a face in the hedge, a dog at loving attention.
The streets glisten with rain, white sky above the filthy
scarred buildings: clouds are always moving.
There’s a boy at a window, looking down from the dark
triangle made by the drape caught on his shoulder,
his face grave as a hero’s on a coin.
None makes an impression on the severe beauty of the streets—
not the man with alert ardent eyes or the woman whose white dress
skirts the damp road, clasped hands like two tiny lockets.
White flames of the sycamore trees. Blazing white stairs.