of sculpting time,
of chiseling off the non-essential bits
of it, to make a film.
of the primacy
of a fixed past in our minds,
of it being more real for us than our slippery presents
of shifting moments.
Science has talked
of a very different present, a present made up
of our experiences
of more recent pasts, pasts also fixed in time.
The green I’ve talked about, the green
of your eyes reaches mine, my eyes
of a puddled brown, within the smallest pieces
of a second, those pieces
of a past so touchably real because it’s still present.
I’ve talked to you
of the first time I touched your palm, how the spark
of electricity from it still races through me, but the shock
of it diminished when we parted.
If he were still alive, I’d talk to Tarkovsky
of making films, to Andrei about films
of your green eyes,
of my thumb probing your palm,
of a broken past, so I could fix it like the present
of those moments when I can see your eyes.