On Panoramic Sleights, a Passage -- by Alex Ranieri

I may call them up at will—only close my eyes, and you will bear witness to another world entirely—for their photographs, undulating with mock movement, replay again and again the same few rigid phrases. A chill comes over me; though once these figures were dearer than any in the world. Ghosts, at least, reach out to touch the living, though they cannot, and plead with the living for mortal favors. But these require no mortal help. Their smiles, shining and bright as money, are called up by none of our actions or desires. How I used to store up those smiles, as the Weaver of Raveloe stored up his gold coins! My sovereigns! How I used to turn you over, and over again in my mind; how I used to imprint onto your eyes, unseeing as any minted emperor, the reflection of my own impossible feelings.