Rochester is built by photography.
Close-up of a girl's face, her room
drowning in light, her hand,
in which, as if stuck in its prime,
a blue prom dress slacks.
Main focus on a hesitant streetlamp
fogging the night sky, a couch
with its guts out and a silent figure
slumped against an exposed spine
of a tower, gaping back to camera
in a toothless surprise over the death
of this town. Out of the monochrome
clouds: a black-and-white bird flock
unspooling into a single line.
If you have any comments on this poem, Ellie Danak would be
pleased to hear from you.