Thursday, April 18, 2013


His, black raccoon-masked, peering
from under the frayed rim of the bowler, into
a world that wasn't heart-friendly. Hers,
sightless while clever hands
arranged flowers, beauty for others.

The millionaire's, hardened and empty,
dissolved by drink into desperate warmth. And always
implicit and complicit, ours watching
from the other side of the screen.

This was before sound: he used titles
sparingly. He spoke of sadness words could never touch
with eyes, hands, whole body eloquent.

With restored sight she could not see him,
did not know him. The story ends happily

when she touches his hand.

Available! High-Voltage Lines, Knocking from Inside

1 comment:

Dan Gambiera said...

One of Chaplin's best