As if we any of us came into focus
more than once or twice a month: the whirr
of the camera and the rasp of the shutter
giving news of aperture, the quick
opening of glossy black, the widening pupil,
the short-breathed sobs of coming or of grief;
and then the shutter falls. A quiet comes.
We pull on snaggy knits and clumsy button shirts;
we dry our eyes on anything at hand. Before
our hearts return to their horizon note
we are forgetting and our eyes are filming over,
sticky with the kitchen grease of days.