She was the corner girl, place
of the turn, when all sides are
blind and it is impossible to count
the number of sides which slide
as silently as sand into the ocean,
each grain curled around an event,
encumbered by history
and bittersweet memory
which tastes like the finish
of a slightly rumpled wine handed
down from harvest to table
by the unsuspecting who have found
themselves immortalized in photos
tucked into albums — Vacation
in Amsterdam, Ten Days in France,
because they are standing by a bridge,
drinking coffee in a cafe, entering
a museum, looking into a waterfall,
because they are the collateral damage
of the vacationer who snaps his photo,
walks down the sidewalk, turns
another corner, finds another
alien landscape of someone's
yesterday and today.
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