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The photo teacher said my son’s negatives were
too
Thin, not enough visual information, and here are the x-rays,
Loaded, over-determined, and thankfully wrong, and both
Propose a reader who can tell sufficiency from the least
Or most of things. So I, who never pray except
In the stupidest fear, suddenly think that this is the problem:
I’ve only imagined a god who listens and judges, not
A reader who interprets, finds things to his liking or not,
Closes the book to get the phone, or falls asleep or drinks another
Coffee over second thoughts and all the while the plot goes on for him
like one of those dreams I never have, the ones you can change,
The ones you believe in even though you know you’re dreaming.
Listen, I could say in a dream like that, I’m talking
To you, and it would be up to me if you were or weren’t
There, if you’d paid attention to the substance and style
Which is all I might mean, in the dream, by me, synecdoche
For all I don’t understand. I thought I understood
What the doctor had to say, but he was, wrong, it turned out,
And so was I, happily back in the thin mystery of it all.
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