a circle of squares
and a circle inside
hands rest on shoulders
for a moment
beneath a paltry smile
that smells of burning plastic.
acrid strength hides in
corners of years
under second skins of dust.
harsh lines emulsed
in black and white
etched in perpetuity
by the blaze heat
of cool baths,
drowned to life
in an inch of chemical.
Its womb is the darkroom.
Its crypt is a scrapbook.
Its lovers countless looking eyes.