You center the frame upon a streetlight,
as if that false star has some sidereal nimbus
capable of dreaming lime fruit & olive oil.
There’s a Tarot book in the mail, and blood in my blue heart.
Oh! I’m too-smiling, squinting in the flash.
We both know strangeness does not equal beauty.
You mistake my dress for Anthropologie.
I mistake myself for an Elena Ferrante character.
One click, and you capture me turning
a key to open gaps between perpetual pasts.
This photo is a message from the dead,
as are all pictures,