Aug 312011
 

How small a snapshot lies in hand
That held such grandness in its lens.
A perspective granted only once and when.
What we see of what is just depends.

Bounded by a regular white of lack,
I look at the detailed littleness;
A thumb occludes a mountain in the west
Like a painter perhapsing a sketch on scrap.

Snapped charm of vistas that had turned my head,
Develops charms of Time new-enlisted
To re-focus a moment visited.

Out of the frame winces one of my dead;
I turn the flat for date, and recognize
How loss and tears consume what's snapped by eyes.


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