© 1996, upon going through a drawer full of old pictures and not being able to throw any of them, even blurry old Poloroids, away.
A drawer full of snapshots
a folder of poems
none worth framing
most poorly composed
or overexposed
red-eyeing the subject
or blurring the scene
or crowding too much
into one tiny screen
choosing soft focus
where sharp was deserved,
or failing to soften
the edges where words
prick like burrs
or the thoughts tumble slothfully forth,
or the hand wasn't steady —
where the Muses
were clearly not ready
to help conjure art.
Just a scrap heap of memories
a jumble of thoughts
unfit for display
they are nonetheless part
of my record of life —
thus entirely too precious to toss.
