Photographs: flat thoughts; memory
replacements. A claim to existence. "I saw
the rust of Autumn, the black and white (dead
or alive) of winter. I was 'ere." We photograph
it all. Each new change again. We can remember precisely,
or forget humanly.
Your hair is curling Autumn in the rain.
Clouds look so nice but they just blow away.
The wind is so strong it snatches my voice
before I even speak. The pines rattle.
Your tongue is yours again.
We were a pin from a distance on the sand;
sharp and dug in at the same place. Right up
to our bodies, and still digging. Now I touch you
and you escape like a bruise. Such skill.
There's no more poetry in the static. Just the moving,
the action, the living. The smell of decomposing leaves
is already terminal, but necessary. We die
again this year, love.