the photo - a poem

is the beauty the curve of breast,
the line of neck, the toussled hair of head?
is the vision of you caught in some poet's words,
the slight terror of your form captured in picasso's brush?

the memory, that memory is all i possess,
where before i held you, i grasp at images, phantasms,
of your half-forgotten face, the white of the shoulder,
the point of your knee,

these are the details i seek to hold in my mind,
the perfectly flawed face shimmers like moonlight
on some perfect midsummer's eve,
yet at times, comes clear at the unlikeliest moments...

for i knew you then, i thought, but didn't really
otherwise the vision would be complete,
and my heart could be full of the polaroid i hold,
yet it's just a snapshot of you on a Spring day
and the embers on it's edges are you melting away...