As
As she looked at me, or through me, trying to photograph
the rain, and said the present doesn’t really exist, the fetching
present, as the sky pushed open clouds, birthing rags
of light like snow, as she said this, her face a cameo of fire, the camera's
hinged greedy eye feeding on the bloated seconds as she
spoke filmy words, backing away, snapping shot after shot, I watched
the steps through trees the light makes, and then the darkness,
the gradual
feathering shadows, a silence that seemed to want to fly.
Found In Volume 29, No. 02
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