A photograph of what I once was
is more real than I am now,
more accurate for the lack of action.
You can see that nothing’s happening.
The shutter blinks in a diastolic stop.
The soul contracts, inhales the light.
The mind plays over each detail
weaving a recognizable impression.
The background is not ground but sky.
The light angles low and slightly
behind the hair. Reflections from a
white wall fill in some shadow, give
highlights under the eyebrow and
hint at something sinister in the smile.
The lips closed. Nothing to be said
that the picture does not say better.