Light’s hand is swift, its penmanship
neat and precise. It jotted down a memo
on this square of paper, then left it behind,
a lost list of shadows burned by a paper clip
rusting away. Five men in half-light,
standing under the roof of an open porch,
holding a string of dead mallards.
One man grins and points at the camera,
his fingertip bright as a spark, reaching out,
touching the shimmering film of the future.
Ted Kooser
No comments:
Post a Comment