When the lightning was striking,
It struck me that some higher being might
Be documenting the region
With some enormous antique flash-pan camera.
And when under the dim red light (not infernal)
The liquids brought our images swimming to the surface,
They showed me dancing, laughing,
A blur living so hard and fast that focus
Could not catch me.
You too, smiling, inconsistent,
Happy and inconsistent,
Insisting that life meant nothing
And finding every meaning you could.
And here I was,
Expecting to see you starched and upright,
With a pale blank stare,
Looking at the camera
Like a wall painted white.