Short Nikon Poems

When My Nikon Died

I kept the inner workings,
kept the plastic furniture
while it cracked
into multidimensional bones.
I kept (in part),
the whir of its mirroring mind.

Of course, the viewer has dimmed out
nothing in the camera fully develops,
yet images emerge.

I can catch the blurry taillights of stars,
find my way through a long-burnt corn field,
photograph photographs
yet to be imaged.