The sepia colour of memory, too long
from the darkroom bath. A dragonfly close-up,
my solitary index offered as a perch. Its seeming
friendliness, ad hoc, filled-in. As with all fictions.
Willing fools, we cram every blank space with connection.
Simple projected desire. The insect’s just exhausted.
Or intoxicated by something unrelated.
Perhaps ill, or dying. But the appeal of a zen
companion proves too much to resist. I lend it
my blind hopes. Play a one-sided game of intimates.
This photo was sometimes later used as proof
of something else. Those were the stoner months.
The hashish months, at the lake. Anomie.
Sick with loss and isolation that nothing could fill.
Stuck as in the picture. Grounded. Unable to take off.
Long solo vigils by the fire pit past midnight. Questions
float up to the sky. Hard answers parachute down.
Unwelcome. Insistent. Find something or someone to spark.
Follow this leitmotif: Court passion, even disaster, if you must.
Whatever means, airbourne.
Butterfly Box of Pins
by Roland Prevost
At the edge of stillness
was there a last tired flex of wings?
What spray preserves as specimen
the slant-tipped pins hold down
What you meant by this gift
Where it fell off the bookcase
a broom gathers glass shards
Pins still in place
its empty box
finds the trashcan