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.
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