ON THE IMAGE YOU KEEP IN YOUR WALLET
The ability of the callused fingers to hold,
in their curves, all of the collapsed light
suspended onto a single sheet of paper, wholesome
in their gloss and in their glory, the faces
of the damned and the disrupted
at the edge of the known places.
Their voices and the shapes of their face stay static,
frozen, held in the places of deep time,
the horizon where all moments are kept in the surface of light
but can't be reached. There, sitting on the box springs of night,
the mind flirts with its limits, dreaming, considering,
wondering what if, easing itself into the point of no return:
the creases of paper, the inevitable folding of hope.