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Description
This wall is a collage of semblance.

Light on glass distorts like time,
rippling and glaring at March the twenty-second,
or summer from two years ago: reflections
caught in frames and catching luster on the orangepeel wall,
apertures with the view of a past more saturated on paper
(my windows blaze tawny, the walls illuminated golden
and portraits tinted with it like sepia or age, monochromatic
in midafternoon sun but raging bright to the borders
with memory made tangible and confined).

She stands apart for the lack of red in her lips
It's you when I purse my small mouth
and for missing beryl in her eyes, plum on her nails.
It's you when I separate my eyelashes
She stands tall and bedazzled, candid in character
with a stranger, sans color and where is the glory?
It's you when I twist my hair elaborate

Photographs are made for moments, full-color spreads
of recollection manifested, but for her I remember
the missing things: tucked beyond the frame
is my world gradating back to shades of her in the flesh
pink silk scarves and porcelain masks on the wall
and I see her again, stark and black and white,
near-lost in the timeline montage of hanging pictures.