I shun old pics,
their sweet bitterness
their cutting edge
their tricks

daughter’s mittens
hung from cuffs,
kodachrome taunt of time


I’d rather mine old stones,
upturn what’s scattered
in my skull, the gold—
stick with what
my head will hold

I do not take nostalgic risks
The photo box stays
beneath the bed
with CDs of bygones
in code on disks

When memory goes
it will not matter

I may not even know the aliens
who peer from three by fours
or smile from screens
in pixel splatters

Love is as it occurs
Now is breath’s agency

not frozen, not shot
with poignancy, not
both a blur

Jim Culleny
Jan 29, 2011



One thought on “Blur

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