Photographs

I seldom see anything
worth preserving which I can’t
imagine when I close my eyes:

the infinitely tender way
the wind ruffles lakes to the texture
of aluminum foil—how

I would smooth the foil
left over from my baloney
sandwich—flatten it

with my fist, then fold it in
a silver square. How I’d forget it,
until mom forced me to yank

my pockets inside out—
looking for forgotten pens—
on Laundry Day.