Sta.sh
I write letters to you in these poems,
in thin strips of rolling ink,
this line-breaked code, a darkroom pool
of encrypted ripples. When your descendants—
attic passersby—your wife—see this picture
(thick white border and stark script—
Thursday, 6:30 a.m. At school early),
they will wonder who stole your spirit
into this photo album's clear slips:
who knew you in your early days.
Convex glass distorts your body.
In late night, I wash the chemicals out of my hair,
go to bed, see negatives behind my eyes,
remember the flash and lens flare
when you shifted to the right
and your hair flamed shafted sunlight.
Then the slow Polaroid click of your eyelids.
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of encrypted ripples
I like this one better than the one before it. Kristen just realized you write a lot of romantic poetry? She cray cray.