I watch a woman take a photo
of a flowering tree with her phone.
A future where no one will look at it,
perpetual trembling which wasn’t
and isn’t. I have taken photos of a sunset.
In person, “wow” “beautiful”
but the picture can only be
as interesting as a word repeated until emptied.
I think I believe this.
Sunset the word holds more than a photo could.
Since it announces the sun then puts it away.
We went to the poppy preserve
where the poppies were few but generous clumps
of them grew right outside the fence
like a slightly cruel lesson.
I watched your face, just out of reach.
The flowers are diminished by the lens.
The woman tries and tries to make it right
bending her knees, tilting back.
I take a photo of a sunset, with flash.
I who think I have something
to learn from anything learned nothing from the streetlight
that shines obnoxiously into my bedroom.
This is my photo of a tree in bloom.
A thought unfolding
across somebody’s face.
I had a body and it was good
until you gave it meaning.
Meaning ruined pleasure
and created it
so ruin creates
and pleasure’s meaning
I didn’t ask for just lived through
a gate that shrieked each time
it opened and on the street
we passed one another
flicking our eyes at then away from
the bodies made boring
by the small clamors that drown out
the one large clamor.
Something in the tree is arguing with the tree?
No that’s just the tree.