To record I thought was allbut the eye belongs to a body–mine back then a camera obscurakeen to record everything–youfor instance your curlsfreckles the tang of your sweat
the way you stood at a stovestirring tall pots of beansin a dank soup kitchen wheretracked snow melted in pools
I confess my bafflement Pointedthe wrong way on Clark StreetI linger in a car and dwellin Jimmy Smith’s Sermon the organpulsing through door panels
The body that waits for usthe one we find and learnat last to inhabit is a kindof destination unmappedslower more tremulousbut not merely an old truck leftfinally to rust among hulks
When it fails us we curse itas though we could find anotheras though our steps haven’tyear by year hammeredour feet into their last shapes
Photo by Sarah Cervantes on Unsplash