Fossils of photons that touched you once then died
on film—a worthy sacrifice, now
captured in printer’s ink and hard stock.
Eyes that left a day dream to focus
on the camera, lids held open by dark
irises, the corners of your mouth
only just north of indifference.
What a presumption to read you,
though life is one long presumption,
the search for meaning in other faces.
Your head, heavy in your hands, the secret
bee ring on your finger climbing
toward the flower of a face
that never really opened into the sunlight.