There is nothing that I cannot show you,
no face nor body, hour of any day,
no place too far or strange for me to reveal
among the permutations of my light,
penumbras, focus and the turning reel.
Though we will never meet, I will know you
when you settle in your seat and the fugitives hide
and a green car idles in an alleyway;
while always I in my Plutonic dark—
unknown, unknowingly beloved—work
lavishly my magic with my lamp
and lens and spool. Look, the lovers linger
on a hushed side street. Look, the enemy camp.
And here you are, rushing between my fingers.

[From Confrontation 115]

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