In this photograph grass is dirty
blond pelt of earth, blown to
bend inland, blown to
bend over to touch your
flanks the way my hair leaned
in candlelight toward you, your
tender palms currying
my own flanks.
.
In the photograph your black eyes
lock to the lens, keeping you.
.
In this photograph of your lithe
body young by the sea, casual
in its place against earth, intense
in its focus on my hand cradling
a cold camera, every slow
night gone leans inland, arrives
on a new wind
to wake me from age.
orphan poems 