When My Nikon Died

I kept its funnel-cloud eyes. I kept the inner workings. Kept the plastic furniture while it cracked into multidimensional bones. I kept the whir of its mirroring mind. A shutter undrapes shadows. A shabby couch on a dusty porch, still plays bluegrass though a fish-eye lens. Dancers in Beijing seep out of digital skins. Of course the viewer dims, nothing in the camera fully develops, yet images emerge. I can now catch the blurry taillights of stars, find my way through a long burnt corn-maze, photograph photographs yet to be imaged.