In this album are all of my pictures
Of all of the gliders I've flown;
Of all of the shrines where I've whispered in vain;
Of all of the shoes that I own.
I have, though, no views of rooms I've abandoned;
Nor of birds that have flown.
My shutter, it seems, will not open
On things that are no longer true.
And sadder than that, my depth of field
Has shallowed; now my view
Is glaucomatous. I can't tell you for love
Or for money what's borrowed, what's blue;
Nor old, nor new.
Who are you? That is my question.
I mean as distinguished from me.
Or, say, as distinguished from the punk
Of this beetle-bored tree?
Answer quickly,
It's late and we're losing the light
Degree by degree.
You don't want your picture taken.
Truth told, few of us do.
We'd rather remain unmounted, unframed,
Unexposed, out of view.
Your picture will join all of those I've not taken
Of many before, now of you.
