Overexposed memories conjure
old photographs, and they are never quite you,
though I search with reasonable care,
diving into layers of suspended silver halide,
processing any chance
that your image would resist
a change of subject in mid-thought,
shifting blame to varied shades of gray
for every callow misdemeanor.
I wanted to coat glass with you, and plastic film,
and even the sheer cliffs that rise from the water at
midnight, rosy with all-night sun and fools' gold
strobed from crags of cupric oxide--
any substrate for my colloidal visions,
but not paper. Never paper.
I could scarcely bear impermanence
or that inevitable fade.