A gaze, a body set aflame—
To burn through shadow, whisper their own name, and mean it.
The paint, a storm. The photograph, a ghost.
A landscape holding what was least lost, most close.
Lines and curves—graphite-carbon trace—
A topography of lost-and-found within a space.
A careful clasp, too delicate to grasp.
One body drawn. Another’s skin and drapes, the ground—
Two encounters in one frame bound.
A lens.
A door.
a poem by André Clements