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,
turn up 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 mere blur

Jim Culleny
Jan 29, 2011


One thought on “Blur

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