In this grey weather the nearest shadows throw
Back confused heads fast against
a wall their
Tangled lines moving vaguely into a
dim landscape
A love without an object a love without
direction
The way winter opens a book maybe a
treatise
On Modernist architecture with a photograph
Julius Shulman took one California afternoon he
Climbed some iron gate without caring where
He went but hearing the first sharp note of
a bell
He turned his head and saw the
structure’s heart
There where all the lines converged where
the light
Of God shown on an outside wall and
on an inside
Wall he made the light with his
camera with his
Rhetoric against the shrillness of deafened
words
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