Photographer

We spoke of taking pictures,
that vision briefly visits, like light.
Delusion’s weather, too, and
here today are its giant legs of fog,
stomping out its figures,
splashing cattle on the grizzled creek,
tripping over slumps of fields
and spitting into culverts.
Clouds swim low as mud,
ignorant of every bird they’ve drowned.
Feathers blur as my green-eyed lashes
grey in notes of rain,
which come to sing to worms,
draw away the snakes of mist.
“Leave me,” they will sing,
to see what I am in this world,
“Let me take the picture I swore I saw.”
But nothing hears how silent I am; I stay still
as I can be, but nothing moves.

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