We did not have an attic
but last night I retrieved my uncle's
box camera from the it
and unhinged the Brownie's back.
Quite a space inside, I could
enter, feel those layers of plates,
sleep like an N between the backing board
and the daguerreotype mat, and
I did, and in the morning
a column of noise supported
the sky. Awakening shattered it
into some single beams of crows,
cuckoos, of hoopla, of women
always rising before their lazing
husbands. The pinhole cast them
on my face, flipped, in negative.
I could say I turned parallel
to outside and could never meet
it until eternity.