SCAVENGERS

Postcard photos are the fashion here, 

As if an eclipse's blurry souvenir

 

Could find inside the solar rim

That mass-produced delirium 

 

Which, from a clichè of the sun,

Sparks an unmailable phenomenon,

 

As if ginger, rum, and peach

Could make the mouth an island beach,

 

Or the gelatin of a stamped-out print

Could gloss the ocean's endless glint,

 

The Coppertone and flowered sweat

Even aging bodies don't forget,

 

But foreign to the paparazzis 

Snapping shots of their own knees,

 

Those who document their vision

With a camera's blind precision,

 

Invariably missing, unfocused and inchoate, 

In a distant crowd, the watching poet.

 

NOTES ON SCAVENGERS