Your Photographs

beneath what photographic darkness does

your panic ride and makes no promises to

return, in fact, i have never heard you promise

shit/ like some kind of human contract with

anyone on the planet might elude your perpetual

despair/ an exile in the innocence of graves/ how

many tombs have you robbed for dimes/

i’m curious and spread across the quantum

field, all your photographs are sealed

above the trees as if orion and all his

stars behind their masks and wounds

strapped about with bands of light have

seen your blood evaporate, brittle boy,

your hand trembles just before you press

the final shutter/

 http://tim-barrus.format.com/