The camera I might never truly fix
huffs out dust from folds and dials and crease
every time I fiddle with settings not yet figured out.
I point the lens today toward a sky
as blue as a coat I hummingbird-stroked
two springtimes ago in San Francisco
knowing it would forever be
well beyond my means, my reach,
yet even today my fingertips yearn
to retrace its seams, as if some magic
could transfer itself into the skin
I’d put into the game of making things right
if only I could be sure of not wasting time
though here we are with so much broken—
so much to study and to show and tell,
no matter what’s in hand or where we start.
by Peg Duthie
Editor’s Note: This poem begins in one place and meanders to another before ultimately ending up back at the beginning, but with the knowledge to appreciate the journey.
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