After “Untitled Film Still #5,” 1977 Cindy Sherman
Letters stamped from Thailand and Hong Kong spill
fog into her ashtray, hide the hard remains
of expectation and chewing gum. Freckled language
is everywhere. She wonders if there is time for lip gloss
before murmurs of war define
the last moving target. The envelopes are silver nitrate
and river. She reaches for hyacinth and jasmine,
cold pebbles pour out instead—a steady gaze
that comes because all charades conclude
with the director shouting Cut.