Stan Brakhage, 1933–2003.

By Gerard Malanga

Exactly what happened next and why are not clear.
The late afternoon light simply skittered up the side
of a wall in the kitchen. The voices of children commingling,
though the soundtrack abruptly drops off.
So what’s heard can only be faintly imagined.
There was a slight chill in the air now.
There was a hollow cooing.
There were even backlit billowing trees and a low rustle.
No longer the cat’s eyes glowing in the dark,
no longer faces lit up in the dark. The wintry barks
chipped away. A child peering in from nowhere.
Is it the last season for things pulling out of focus? Damn!
A diaphanous curtain furls and unfurls.
Linen piled up on a chair and the emptiness
soon soon forgotten. Someone is taking a nap
and for once the screendoor remains silent.
Then the silhouette of a branch gently sways
on the opposite wall. A dizzying script scratches
its way into darkness.