Goodbye, Amateur Photographer
Today at 2:30, if the sun
is in the same state of mind,
I will try again to catch the shadow
I failed against yesterday.
I don’t believe you liked
claiming an angle; unless,
on your belly, catching windward
water, over melt-cold pebbles.
Alone under the aurora, I can see you
like a cactus on the tundra, saluting
their invisible whoosh before they
washed you clean of color.
Oh. Snow.
If I must, after swearing it off,
I’ll nudge this snowfall into the
warmer margins of melancholy.
A peek after I said I wouldn’t.
Boots after I said I wouldn’t.
And something with my lips.
Look, clouds are churning out
Bichon-puffed parachutes!
I better get in on this.
Echoes
Weary of my complaints becoming oral tradition,
today I’ll let the wind do all the talking:
Minor chord summer severe as split axe handles.
Sharp crickets sanding away at their own winged tongues.
A bored mutt howling at the end of its rope.
And tomorrow, coming back to me like yesterday’s boomerang.
Bradley David Waters is a California-based writer of poetry, fiction, essays, and beyond-genre. His writing and image-based work appear in Denver Quarterly, Exacting Clam, and numerous other publications and anthologies. He is also a senior editor at jmww journal. Bradley earned his B.A. in English from Michigan State University and a Master’s in Social Work from the University of Michigan. He and his husband steward land for wildlife habitat, grow heirloom apples, and adopt unwanted poultry. Publications, images, and video readings may be found at bradley-david.com and on Substack @bradleydavidwaters.
