Bill Woolum, my favorite photographer.
Light has limits. What he can't see
He believes in. He tacks up background.
Shadows explode from a flash.
Winter trees, victims.
Noon comes to find him
At home in the color blue
Whistling in a minor key.
In his dark room, he seeks clarity-
Turns to acid
In unmarked bottles.
Light in the abstract bores him.
His shapes labor against light,
Make gestures in space like mimes.
At midnight he puzzles what presence eludes him.
The space between trees,
The moon's other side,
Eclipse spins from his thumb.
He can never get it right.
- Carol Muske