Photograph

You stand outside an orange door,

you are wearing wide leg, white trousers,

if you weren’t wearing boots they would graze the floor. 

The camera round your neck 

hangs. 

I see it move as if this wasn’t a photo. A fleck

Of dust caught forever on the lens

like a painters mark,

a purposeful accident to cleanse

The possibility of mistake,

make

no mistake,

I wake at waking hour 

and I still go back to sleep,

to see you. Our

Time is now 

but will also be then. 

Caught forever, how

You were that day.

I love that picture outside the orange door

but it’s not untrue to say,

I love your touch much more.