When pictures, noble, inspiring wonder and fear,
Swim into your sight, but do not respond when you speak to them,
These, like movies and books, are dead, like ghosts, their nobility
A rumor, a shadow, a reflection of anything which happens to move
In front of the mirror, even your own image, which you naturally love
Because it is you, though you may hate the way it looks
Because it is not beautiful enough to inspire movies and books,
And further, there you are, it is you looking at you, it is you
But it cannot tell you anything you want to know
Even as you stare meaningfully alone in the cinema at the glow,
The light and meaning of all light and meaning, but when you think
Of a question, it will not answer; it doesn’t know, it can only blink
With its noble eyes
And from its lips, anything—even lies.
When the noble Horatio heard the wild rumor, it was clear
How Hamlet’s friend felt: “Tush, tush, ’twill not appear.”
But when his thick reason saw the cheat, he turned pale with fear.
Who’s there? The rumored video, ghost, history, life, is near.
