!DOCTYPE html> html> head lang=”en-US”> title>Un Chien Andalou (An Andalusian Dog) by A. Van Jordan/title> /div> h1 class=”pageTitle”>Un Chien Andalou (An Andalusian Dog)/h1> div class=”entry-content clearfix”> h2 itemprop=”author” class=”author”>by A. Van Jordan/h2> div itemprop=”genre” id=”content”> div class=”taxonomy-images”>a href=”/a-van-jordan/poems.html” class=”taxonomy-image-links”>img itemprop=”image” src=”https://www.best-poems.net/files/imagecache/poet/category_pictures/A.%20Van%20Jordan.jpg” alt=”A. Van Jordan” title=”A. Van Jordan” width=”180″ height=”200″ class=”taxonomy-image-term-11067 taxonomy-image-vid-22″/>/a>/div>p>Because a razor cuts across a frame of film,br /> I wince, squinting my eye,br /> and because my day needs assemblybr /> to make sense of the scenes anyway,br /> making a story from some pieces of truth, I gobr /> outside to gather those pieces.br /> Thousands of moments spooling outbr /> frames of mistakes in my day.br /> As if anyone’s to blame,br /> as if anyone could interpret the collidingbr /> images, again and again, draggingbr /> my imagination behind me,br /> I begin assembling.br /> I don’t know anything, so I seekbr /> directions, following the pathbr /> of ants from your palm, outbr /> the apartment door tobr /> a beach. Is this where I’mbr /> supposed to ask if my hands on youbr /> bend some light around shade? Maybebr /> I’m not ready for the answer. They saybr /> art imitates what we can sculpt or writebr /> or just see when we turn ourselvesbr /> inside out. I can’t turn my eye awaybr /> from the sight of failure. The rain pelts rooftops.br /> I listen to the song, thinkingbr /> when the sun comes back,br /> beating down the doorbr /> in my head, I’ll salvage whatever sitsbr /> still long enough for me to render,br /> before anyone knows what really happened./p>/div> p>br /> br> /body> /html>
