It’s the Bronx, Barretto Point, so the sea
cannot be far away. But all we have to go on
is the lone pine in the distance— the rest
bleached by the chemistry of time. Also
there’s this young man in the foreground, squatting
with his forearms balanced on the fulcrum of his knees,
speaking to what’s disappeared. It is a blur
resembling a woman with her arm extended,
urging him to follow. Soon the Great Depression
will also call him, and for lack of other work
will send him downstairs to the boiler
where he’ll nurse the chromosome of sadness
while his words turn into coal. But he was not really
down there with the onions and potatoes—
in a moment, he will follow her
into the waters off Barretto Point, which will turn his good white shirt
translucent. Like the translucence he was led by,
but in this picture he hasn’t risen yet
to cross the muddy shoreline. He’s still crouched
in the upland, growing misty with the nebula who touches him,
misty at the prospect of his likewise turning into mist
as the camera makes this record of their betrothal.