67 In Public: Liberté, Fraternité A photographer sets his tripod up and waits Among various types down here for the sunset; The unlovely public — whatever it is creates Us bungles us.… And no colors as yet; The scuffed-up sand shines gray where it is wet. The place seems idly jostled, by the gazes And glances of all these folk, their grunts and phrases. On the bright gray they bulk in silhouette. v And home now, out of the salt atmosphere, With these things written as I pleased I feel The doubts crowd in (like a real crowd, watching me Running along down there), each all too real And undisguisable deformity Passing in plain view, in the open here. 131