Untitled (from a notebook dated 1978)
By Tod Papageorge
Mid-spring, mid-morning – into the park
and downtown through the shimmering air,
each flush and pulse of light flashing quicksilver
through a net of dust, leaf and pollen.
Step by step, a camera hanging from my neck
beats my heart.
Green like the incontrovertible season,
I move through the high, untended, tow-tipped grass,
supplicant, trainee, hunter, mule,
out here to photograph,
to call this intoxication to account
and press these lawns and palings