|The Art of Being Photographed
When I saw my first James Dean
He was already dead. Already tragic.
The film is an extended funeral.
I fell for the race
He hurtled in. Left, against the door. Forward.
Did he also lean like that
In real life? Maybe he did before he died,
The car sliding under the trailer like a glass
Pane under a brick. How do you respond to a road
When the door is a heavy slab of metal,
Full of glass jigsaw, a serrated machine?
Signs lean like blank, stupid trees.
The engine is a heart,
A handful of nails.
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