Our photographs are still born from light,
Shadows like of the Corinthian woman
Who would trace her husband’s shadow
On the wall before body vanished in war.
Photographs were born to keep shadows.
Words are also shadows of things of the air
And pictures in the fog of a death or its sky.
Words are pictures of shadows of things.
They are confessions of a night’s shame
Bringing pink blushes to our dark nights.
They are camera clicks to capture shadows
Of bodies that have vanished in the war.