It coats the clouds over Glendale in steel. Now I hear, in memory, Eye of the adulterer for dusk– that verse in a voice that must be my mother’s–hushed, earnest as the burn of the streetlights as they shutter to life outside. But, my only love, I live in the dusk of a model’s body– in its glow, pose and transubstantiation to the other life of a photograph. It breaks the eye free of city lights, free of our fever for each other. You who own my sight–in your lens, in its tension, correct my overcorrections– lead me to rose water of the darkroom–though I am numb to you.