Perspective

As I look at my photographs
I realize I want to extricate
reality from the maw of
the fantasy which represents
one goddamned second.

A passing glance, the crowd milling
and imagination churning reason
into a desire smoothie.

But it was never like that,
on the bus negotiating curves,
mountains and flatlands, your
smile positioned between
alarm and joy.  Recorded,

as a bad lip day, hair floating
south,  eyes floating off
the camera’s capture, your
left hand clutching the rock
which also supports  your
back.  Moss grows there,

As does this feeling, this
reason for lifting the camera
from where it juggles against
my stomach, a talisman,
a guard against time taking off
like a runaway train,

and everything forever becoming
so different that I am
forlorn in my heretic skin.