My age is nothing under the heavens


Some moments I find precious,
caught between two closing doors,
a small flag of cotton moves
as I bend to capture it.
A blink of the eye is not fast enough,

for while I blink, the fog over the sea lifts,
the wall and trees and ducks
take on substantial forms,
the dreamlike quality rubs
its eyes at me, holding a frame of fingers

before my face, pretending
to forge a camera lens, I want to hold this
sight in a shifting moment of agelessness;
my age is nothing under the heavens,
as the sun comes out to run a race.