The Piano, Jane Campion (1993)
May it be as it was in our rhapsodies.
Tethered to you,
oneiric assemblage of sea salt
ivory: you playing me
as I imagine the gods have,
cavorting on their mountain of stone.
Forgive me. This our default
condition: each of us versions of the other’s
own making. Call me melancholia. Whatever
you like, love, awash in you—call me
the horizon, a noose’s useless slack line,
call me whatever name
the pacing beast between us goes by.
I open myself for no other. What are we
if not vowels of thirst—
what are we when our hour has come.
in tongues for which we have none.
The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.