Dust has got to the frames and past.
Yellow mold above two men
holding hands, cracks in the sky
and people bathing in the river.
A sunset from nineteen sixty-six.
A blur of birds fifty years before
the machine in Boots asks me,
reframe or print as they are now.
There you are, my father clears brush
and hums what may be a first line.
A friend takes the shot of him
at the age I am now, the portrait
of a boy with mosquito net and guitar.
He reaches out and returns the favor
with a close-up as close as he can.
Close enough. The photos print
and fit in the palm of my hand.
The sun is a little larger now
than when he taught me how to hold
each slide to the light and squint.
From Magma 84, Physics
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