But when I concentrate on what
is now in my mind, what
instructions can be found there?                         

        — Saul Kripke,
                Wittgenstein on Rules and
                Private Language

1.

He knows the tricks for lighting a child: he must aim
the reflector lamps so the face
shades back on both sides, is bright with its
interior grace, its announcement of being; he
aims light at the ceiling, at the floor, to avoid
what amateurs do: to light the child
from the front, like an oncoming car, like
the child’s future speeding toward the photographer’s
studio with its stinging flash already
out of the case, ready to burst
and wash out the comforting depth
and leave the face a white image on white paper.

2.

He knows French. He says to himself, “Les mystères
de peau,” and sometimes, “Les mystères de chair.”
The trick to posing newlyweds . . . but everyone
knows how you must incline them
to lean imperceptibly toward the warm flesh
of the other and how their smiles must
learn to be solemn: this is a bow
to the world’s gravity, this is skin meeting skin
and saying, “I promise.” He distrusts laughter
in newlyweds; he takes down their faces
and makes a prediction. “Those,” he says, pointing
at four hands, two gleaming smiles. “A year and a half.”