the photographer

once,
a long time ago,
there was an artist.
(call him singularity,
call him paradise)

after the completion
of his most recent,
and some would say most famous,
piece of art
(a self-portrait)
he photographed it
and made this photograph
into a puzzle.

the photographer now sits
at a table
sorting through the box
of infinite, individual pieces
working on piecing back together
the image of his creation.
(he doesn’t start with the edges
like we would
for the edges of an infinite puzzle
aren’t necessarily the easy ones
anymore.)
each piece,
buzzes with life
as it passes through the hand of the photographer,
before being placed, connected to the larger image
being formed.

the transfer of heat, they say,
makes the appearance of flowing time for the finite.

the photographer’s hand are warm,
transferring, for a time,
heat to each piece.
but when placed on the table
the heat
seeps out again,
returning to coldness.

this continues,
until the end of eternity
when the puzzle is completed.
he then
steps back
takes out his camera
and photographs this most recent,
and some would say most famous,
piece of art.

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the photographer

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