There is no now

Change is our native land,
Our birthright, and yet,
We cling to a past like
An old winter coat,
Threadbare, stained, useless,
Well into summer, to keep,
I suppose, from disappearing
Altogether.

Our so-called future, bright,
Burning, always impending,
Half beautiful, half terrifying,
Like sunlight slowly creeping
Toward our vampire lives.

Who said it was going to be easy?

Notes for the photographer

Don’t push too hard for fidelity
because looking at a photograph
you really have no idea
what it felt like to be standing
just this side of that sky,
feet in the mud, those foot-sized
bricks framing your heart.

Avoid the light in polar places
and try to catch the drip, drip, drip
of reality disappearing just off-camera,
those eyes aged into history
while no one was looking.

When you dip roses, even roses
into the frail cold of liquid nitrogen,
“J’accuse!” they shout.
“M’amuse!” we shout back,
sometimes in anguish, sometimes despair,
as they lie shattered around us.