Photographer’s Song
Standing in the shade,
looking at the light,
I know that I can make
something clear and smart.
I know that I can catch
something they can’t see
as they cross the bridge.
I scour them with my eye.
As they live their lives,
blind, mundane and rich,
I wait until it’s time
and make my little click.
Through the dimming light
I watch them from the shade,
still, in my perfect spot
as they walk away.
I use my longer lens
to bring them close to me.
Their thoughts are in my hands.
I check them on a screen.
If I make a print,
I know what it will show.
When daylight ends,
my camera feels cold.
Nothing Song
Nothing real until it’s written
started every day:
I’d fill up page after page
ransacking memory.
Nothing clear till it’s recalled
and marshaled into lines.
I furnished all those little rooms
with objects from my pen.
My house came back, my mother’s desk,
my dad’s ham radios.
Even the two-speed bike I’d sold
became accessible.
I set them out, I rearranged,
exploring each design:
the cleanest one, the one that made
most sense, the one that sang.
I listened, and I read aloud–
the past danced in my mouth.
Feelings drummed up for a song
assumed an air of truth.
Going through songs now, I start
to see what they concealed:
Nothing real until it’s written,
nothing written real.
