It Will hit The bottom, Dive in the mud, In vileness. It will Dig, open, and reveal, Your core, then ruthlessly Interrogate (if you are found) Inside its cold, dark underground, Let out – beautiful, wing-like, frail – Its blue-green-golden peacock’s tail. Twelve only frames* – you will be raised To feelings’ summit, will be shown the way That usually we don’t look, or think, or say – by mouth’s word, Then wound you deadly by the sword (and bring you balsam of some sort), Will poison you with its love drink And place to ask in mirrors’ ink: “Who are you?” – face to face – And put a tart into your face! That’s the orthography And choreography Possible only In cinemato- graphy… _ * Film’s speed in the projector is 24 frames per second.