Jennifer Pilch






Daguerre, once sprawled on his chaise, rises to approach the shuttered window.



Brush dipped in silver made the world


Chorus: Pressed for time


He quickly opens and shuts the shades; /flash/ Rachel’s face.


for what’s a world without before and after


Mercury behind glass created your face


Chorus: Nick of time


Quickly opens and shuts; /flash/ Rachel’s face.


quandary of the fixed and dwell


Your face a glint in aggregate world


Chorus: Out of time


/flash/ Rachel’s face.


So open shutters for a spell









Daguerre walks across the dim persian toward a pile of diorama sketches. He lifts them, drops them. They scatter the atelier floor.



If a city can be made in a matchbox


with small sticks and perspective/prospective smoke



If a city can be made in a breadbox


with time’s curvature, dayrise & nightshadow



If a city can be made without scale―


You see cobbles you cannot feel



If a city can be made to rain to puddle


And this city absorbed/observed like a pill



The city’s not the same―



The potted plants go dry


Kettle left on the flame


Streetlamps flutter lost catalogs down hintalleyways


When a city has been made.

Jennifer Pilch is the author of Deus Ex Machina (Kelsey Street Press, forthcoming 2015) and recent poems can be found or are soon forthcoming in Berkeley Poetry Review, Dreginald, Dusie, Fence, Pith, Summer Stock, Tarpaulin Sky Magazine, and TYPO. She edits La Vague Journal:

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