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/