In yawns of dawn departure loaded,
yet left behind, the camera;
not for the first time we’re reduced
to postcard reminiscences.
Look right there, in the glove box crushed,
a former plastic canister
spills its sprung brown roll, glossy
with pictures taken yet concealed.
yet left behind, the camera;
not for the first time we’re reduced
to postcard reminiscences.
Look right there, in the glove box crushed,
a former plastic canister
spills its sprung brown roll, glossy
with pictures taken yet concealed.
Scenes not seen, forever frozen
in the pause before a red light shows,
get held in fleeting recollection.
That moment when I squeezed your hand,
kissed your cheek and cracked a feeble joke:
because we stood and gazed beyond
the margin’s frame of reference,
I know by heart its landscape.
Sundown across waves, a cliché
slips behind the lid of nightfall.
Looming large at distance, but
in a snapshot’s fixed alignment,
close up the green-washed glitter
is never so sublime; remember
we leave someday as we came in –
take only what’s disposable.
ix.2009
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