By John Sibley Williams
While the photographer develops his film
and the throws of ordinary life resume,
I am left to pose alone—
with leg draped over my ritual chair,
with a new suit I didn’t buy,
with the knitted brow of knowing
eternity is static
and feigning indifference.
Chemicals are blending in the next room.
I can smell what it means
to no longer be temporary.
I’m reliving a certain schoolboy violence,
leaving it nearer the surface.
Not enough has been taken from me.
My face is still turned to the window
as it will be in the picture.
I can’t see out of either.
Heavy light eclipses one half of one eye,
as if I’m reading through the tooth marks
left on newsprint.
Clutching at Straws 