what are all these photographs
but memories and dust
of leaves hard pressed between;
and sanctum where the present hides—

gauge the eyes beneath veneer.
tear the mouths of quietus,
and pull asunder all that mattered,

all that ever was so craven here to lie
forever in the folds of candid, poised
and wretched present being.

a match to drop
a piss to take
and bellows of the smoke

say cheese.

- Joseph M. Gant