[One of
seven in B&W] It is night inside my Minolta, permanent as a shutter shut.
Zoom is doomed, settings sunk. Precision parts, designed to blind with light,
are blinded. The room is black. Purchased one white summer at Auckland Airport,
Minolta was a way to captivate Samoa, bougainvillea cascading through the
aperture like distant galaxies. Or Italy as the Soviet fell, piazzas flowering
white at its window. Now Minolta’s retired to a December ledge. It rests in its
blue leather case, louche sightseer who’s seen better days. Batteries are tired,
its timer’s got entropy. All it knows is midnight.
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