by August Kleinzahler
You so love these photographs, too well perhaps,
and rush to frame the moment, press the shutter,
and get along with this dollhouse saga
you had rehearsed before it ever came to be.
Ah, Little Girl Destiny, it’s sprung a leak
and the margins are bleeding themselves away.
You and I and the vase and stars won’t stay still.
Wild, wild, wild–kudzu’s choked the topiary.
Looks like your history is about to turn
random and brutal, much as an inch of soil or duchy.
Not at all that curious hybrid you had in mind:
Jane Austen, high-tech and a measure of Mom.
You’re lost, desolate as Savannah after Sherman.
The lavender sachet, marbled storybooks,
the ring Grandma left you, poor Damien’s love letters . . .
It’s just your eyes, ass, me and a broken Nikon.