Say you came to gaze into glass waters,
the tide of sunflower sea stars
and the cracks of calcite sediments;
watched shale stacked in quarry against wave,
green anemone with open arms,
and heard the purl of the sea
pooling into globes beneath you.
The stone sleeps until you
come to know its lattice ego,
let it collapse—unpolished granite
cut by salt and ferric surf.
Say you heard total control is the death of work,
or learned how stone begins beneath the surface
like spring, cut black by the knives of rain.
The photograph is the language of symbol:
you talk when you see the river is a line
which flows through trees, skies, births,
tombs, and eyes—the warmth
is the ineffable truth of fluidity.
Here there are no trees, only wool,
portholes of stone, the invisible grid
of lay lines and faults where a black hole
shows the breakability of beauty.
Here, the artist’s hands bleed to know himself
and make what can never last.
Mark Burr is the first son of Larry and Sam Burr. He likes walking his dog and pretending Instagram makes him a credible photographer. His secret dream is to manifest incredible wealth and do nothing. He drank a glass of orange juice for breakfast.