This eye the lens, this blink the shutter,
Mine is a darkroom roofed with hair:
And, for that reason, I've no need
To carry a camera anywhere.
Can you conceive how many studies,
Each of you, I there keep stored?
Your laughing faces in leaf-rinsed sunlight;
Your bodies like a chestnut board
Laid across waves; your heads and hands
Focused to light a cigarette;
And here your child-like orchid-scented
Slumber in the shadow-wet
Woodlands where yourselves as lion
Lived, and in my record lives.
The world has only one such secret
Film-bank of your negatives.
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