after a version of Dorothea Lange’s Migrant Mother,
Nipomo, California, March 1936

      
The smaller the window
                                                                                                the more you will see
clearly—
                                  and the more you see clearly—
such focus—
                                                 the more the world seems flat.

Decide what you would rather leave
nebulous, what you should hide
in the fog of its own shape:

                                                                                                           the bleary
suitcase set with the suggestion of
                                                                                                                                         an empty plate

                                                                  before the infant—less vague—

fading into his mother—
                                                                                                 the crisp lines of her face—

the distinct pole holding up the lean-to,

                                                                                                                                                                  the land beyond—
an impression of dust and trees.

                                                                                                                                    We see
no ruined field—
                                                                   the tiny peas lost to frost—
no hint of work.