Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.
“Poetry is like making a joke. If you get one word wrong at the end of a joke, you’ve lost the whole thing.” – W. S. Merwin
I took the photograph on a rain-soaked afternoon in a tiny hotel in Grindelwald, Switzerland. A cool summer shower was pelting the windowpane as the sky grayed and bruised with purple clouds.
It’s a picture I remember setting up and shooting (a process that involved clicking the TV to the weirdest channel available); yet I had forgotten about the image itself. Like a lot of photographs, it came from utter boredom — the process of studying a mundane space and trying to make something interesting out of it.