The Darkroom

Red water laps, a familiar form sharpens;
my out-of-focus hand refills your glass.

Toasting the turn of a year never lived,
no one hears the shutter flex

but you, turning to the camera
in miniscule movement, time-lapse:

a wink broken down to its constituent parts,
smile expanded to its own universe.

Brown eyes speak of your resurgence;
recognition in the grey hair

still combed over sun-starved ears,
last reserves of black patrolling the scalp.

In the resurrection machine of the darkroom,
scenes choose themselves in the stop-baths,

chemicals stir the electric memory
and the final image is pegged up to dry:

the roll-up you meant to smoke later
resting on your armchair,

the glass of whisky a third full
relinquished, falling forever.

Crossings Over (University of Chester)


Mohamed Sarfan's picture
Dear Poeter, Mysterious realities lurk in the human mind for life. At the point of darkness outside of life man is explored a little. Because, birth is the incarnation that started from darkness. The human mind loves darkness so much in the process of exploring the realistic resolution that is apparently hidden within the image that appears in a mirror. All The Best My Dear Friend; Write More Congratulations

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