I see your hands with cameras, that light
you carried from some bright Sylvania
filament in the days that followed the
Fête de la Saint-Jean Baptiste, sepia
froth of your café au lait set aside
knuckles poised in estimation, white gold
and the whole backdrop of Europe, the streets
finally unrolled like a screen behind
you, in the fraternity that followed
Bastille day, another shot, a poet
a poem left by the river, pulled into
focus, there’s a story about the day
you were born, all about being alive
though I’ve only heard half so far, other
summers, reels of film not yet developed
from those pictures we see with our eyes closed

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