Revisionist Poetry – “Tiny Divas of the Silver Screen” – Ready for my close-up, Mr. Deville, v.3

They arrive in white, tiny and relentless,
little actresses in a noir of green and shadow.
The lens inhales them; a hush spreads like powder.
Petals fan themselves, breath silk, and murmur—
not sirens, but lullabies of hush and light—
inviting a fingertip that will never quite arrive.
Close: a pollen comet, a vein that writes a map,
a throat of silk that stores a constellation.
The aperture winks; the leaves dissolve to night.
What was background becomes a private sun;
the director leans and finds a small universe,
and we, audience to this miniature flame,
are left with the slow, bright ache of wonder.