by Kirie Reveron

    We meet between the glass of frames
    And photo paper
    And the thirty years
    That separate us.

    And mostly, you seem
    Blue eyes looking out
    from plans and details
    and preoccupations with, premonitions of
    long and good
    days to come.

    In your winter coat and muckluks, you are
    bright with snow light
    on your cheeks and in your eyes.
    And I--
    I am there, too.
    on my sled,
    small and red, veloured and fat-fisted,
    not yet a miniature you,
    not yet aware of the camera
    or the spring that follows.

    There is a chemistry of shadow and light
    on certain nights
    when the fan above my bed starfishes
    itself across the ceiling,
    past the rattling cage of
    minutia mind
    to the rocky beach
    of memory.

    I stand on the shore
    skipping thoughts along the flashing lake
    singing in clean strokes across the water
    until they sink
    like obsidian into oil.

    And here you are again,
    but opaque to me
    This time.
    And it's clear to me that
    those captured, auspicious moments
    left a world of questions
    of the frame.

    What must you have thought,
    worried over, as your own night-
    beach tumbled into your room
    and roared you awake with its waves?

    I have learned that
    if I touch the glass, or
    ruffle through papers
    or sing stones over water 30 years deep,
    I can imagine you as
    Another me.
    And for a moment,
    I can see the world outside the lens.

    And as for the me that was then, well,
    is lost at the bottom of the oily lake,
    (for now)
    for a tide.

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