I wish I were a photographer,
So I could cup that fleetsecond away
Leaves falling in a silent wood wintry
Breathy nose pressing to clear glass a-dad-awaiting
Droplet leaping from drop dripped into crystal water
And I could cup that fleetsecond away.
But I have no machine for nowcapture
I have the past: photocopies of what hasn’t been
And vibrant cumhithers of what could have
I pervade my shoot,
And I hate capture
Of all things I hate.
Leaves fall, in the meantime
In a wood which has no me,
And the spidersweb glistens with accumulated dew
Elsewhere in the saffron glow of a distant morn.
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