Frank O’Hara, “An Image of Leda” 

The cinema is cruel like a miracle. We sit in the darkened room asking nothing of the empty white space but that it remain pure. And suddenly despite us it blackens. Not by the hand that holds the pen. There is no message. We our- selves appear naked on the river bank spread-eagled while the machine wings nearer. We scream chatter prance and wash our hair! Is it our prayer or wish that this occur? Oh what is this light that holds us fast? Our limbs quicken even to disgrace under this white eye as if there were real pleasure in loving a shadow and caress- ing a disguise!