We've already walked circles around each other,
passing over-the-shoulder glances until our tread
formed a Venn diagram clearly defining what's mine
and yours but especially where we keep mixing up
the point of holding these cards so close to our chests,
biceps strained to deny that photos are worth their weight in gold
like that elementary trick where palms pressed against a door frame,
suddenly released, give arms a mind of their own to feel
the fleshy figments of imagination shuddering, in real life,
from the simplest massage: wrung out forearms.
Photos are worth a thousand words, but only a fraction
of the action freely translated senses can take.
See two sharp jawbones with bristled clenched
fists advantaged with emptiness you fear are revealing the
Feel of air displaced by one jawbone onto mine, kinematically conjoining
hands to ears to stop the words you can't keep from explaining
Hear what I'm saying about the fingertip tracing
to rouse you back to your photos.
Swoop them up and pivot each just right. These photos are worth their weight in the gold we seived over leaf-matted fingers. Not worth much, so pretend I never saw those.
