Three Photographs

Long after he had left us,
I found three eight-by-fives.
They’d been hiding in my copy
of Catcher in the Rye.

With a clarity that only lovers know,
the electric white of
a lightning strike
lit up my drab front room.

I sat down sharply,
juggled the images in trembling
clumsy hands.

“Sunda Kelapa Harbour, Jakarta 11/04/99”

Standing on the prow
of a two-masted pinisi
he is a lithe, bronzed boy
whose narrow arms
look made to coil a rope.

Caught looking back
mid casual turn
he eyes the loving lens
well knowing
that his image
is being made.

Beyond him, in light
white summer dress
and batik pumps
two long and slender legs
relaxing;
fuck-me akimbo
on the salt-burned teak.
I forget her name.

“LA - June ‘96”
His famous blacktop run
with Andy Clark.
Two motorbikes
kick-standed on
orange dust.
A sun-bleached sign says
Running Springs
Fawnskin
Big Bear Lake.

His leather is undone,
his chest a mirror of sweat.
He salutes with middle finger
and a self-rolled cigarette.

“London 2006”

A different man by now,
his hair is not
an insult to the world.
There is already less oxygen
in every breath.

He breakfasts behind specs,
a coffee pot and grapefruits.
His pack of Marlboro Red.

Beyond him
those awful patio doors
frame my reflection.
His Leica to my face,
I’m there in unhooked jeans
barefoot and topless.
My tits at twenty six.

I cannot sit and dream all day.
Things will get away.
I hunt around
and find
my Collins Atlas of the World.
I hide the pictures deep inside
on arbitrary pages.

No tears. No tears.
No tears. No tears.
They’ve all been cried.