SCENE

Do I exist outside of a photograph? 

Does a fisherman exist underneath the flat-bottomed

boat?       The moth drew to a flame

                to escape the confines of clustered polluted air. 

                The flame in my heart this moth vibrates. 

You are there; a radio, blaring in my chest.

You are there, as a moth is there, or as seagulls

                      explore a vast shoreline. 

Sunlight glistens off of the docks of my heart; 

dew-covered boards as if inlaid with diamonds. 

Outside on the street I see three boys throwing basketballs

upwards towards a powerline where a lace-tied pair of shoes

hangs. Their failed attempts make them slump-shouldered. 

The sky, duck-egg blue; 

spotted feathers of clouds,

like white ceramic. Blackbirds

hang, soar, maneuver quickly,

leaving traces of sudden blurs

as if scratching words into the 

calming blue sky with goose quills.

Winter trees, barren, with skeletal

fingers nibbling this scene to 

sharpness. 

Contemplative. Meditative. 

I exist outside of a photograph

giving breath to all that I envelop.