12 July 2014


stitching that would cause blindness
finished almost invisible seams
of a hidden pocket, the photograph, twice
folded, a man's faced, quartered, in
the wrinkles of the creasing
she pressed a fingertip, hoping
to read in the texture
who he was, who
he had been, tucked into the pocket of
a coat of autumnal haze, now
turned out to see
the light, sepia facing the
blue of sky mottled by white,
discovery of this unnamed
fellow, forever young, bereft of a frame,
secreted all these years, the intrepid
explorer mothballed in cold storage,
oh, my lost, my lovely one, you
stare with the sincerest of eyes

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