Andrew Bode-Lang

PRACTICE

He photographed the corner of his room.
He did it over and over, the camera
standing on its tripod, a waiting eye he opened
when the corner asked him to—the corner
where wall met ceiling met wall. The walls held up
the ceiling; the ceiling suspended the walls.

He was practicing for the long illness
on which he might ride his bed toward death,
from his pillow studying the corner
through a lens dying made. He was practicing
to trigger the shutter tomorrow, on his way
like a live man through the room.

–from Rattle #23, Spring 2005