After Stravinsky,
we took turns with the camera.
I snapped your glasses.
You snapped my necklace.
I shot your car.
You shot my cat.
We shot our windows:
mine full of poplar leaves,
yours full of flannel shirts.
And that drunken pot shot at the stars.
Later, I burned the photographs,
edges curling to catch the flames.
Oh, but that glorious sting of wine,
those flashes of blue and purple
in the ash!
Published in Hedge Apple
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