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.