How is it that we measure the distance from
here to there? How did a once concrete
memory’s colors, archived in song lyrics and
YouTube quotes, bleed but a faint outline of a ghost?
I remember how I once could count each
yellow tick-mark from here to New Jersey, and how
there’s still a molten gold trail of streetlights (all of them
pressed against a moving window pane).
Whose iPod was plugged in then? What are
all these songs I sing, but know not the name of?
When was it that my mouth stopped guessing
the right words and hardened her soft eyes?
What color were they again? O loathsome me!
Why do I remember all impressions, but
no specifics? Such is my obsession: changing
with each passing mile; green, blue, gray.
She doesn’t notice them herself. Fireworks explode
and tidal waves drown Long Island miracle miles,
but we barely even realize it, blind in smiles,
trusting that the streetlights will stay lit ’til we die.
But at dark times like these I sure could use
a nice photograph. We never did photograph well,
you and I. I suppose a good photo requires
sobriety. Streetlights and midnights are harder to capture.
Silver trophy winner
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