Some plainly hot. <br /> <br />Lala, a Pakistani long in Grand Forks, <br />much given to early American sea-chests, takes <br />out her Leica, her eyebrows showing over the lens <br />she has fixed <br /> <br />next door on <br /> <br />Don J., a forty-year ponytail boy who shifts his eye, <br />view-finding throgh his new Nikon, onto <br />a poet's spaniel named Peekaboo, a yard-dog <br />with limited focus; <br /> <br />none of whom <br /> <br />entertain for a minute the non-Euclidian triangle <br />they--without posing--compose: they proceed, if <br />at all, by long fractions of seconds, adjusting <br />their film speeds or shutters <br /> <br />to June afternoons <br /> <br />in Gand Forks, where I've never been, except to <br />picture them, cropped, stopped down to f. 16, their local <br />depth of field, through which they move with slowness <br />of music I don't quite remember, <br /> <br />probably by Hovhaness.<br /><br />Philip Booth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/long-afternoons-in-dakota/
