Foxing.
Craquelure.
Mildew where the frame
meets the paper. Loss
where the canvas
has been eaten away.
Lily pond
of silver mottling to black
under the glass
of the mirror.
Tarnish and rust
in the etching
on worn hilts.
My forehead
iced with dry skin
after a day in the sun;
brow wrinkles
that won’t disappear.
This is what
outlasting your moment
looks like — and
it is not
entirely
unlovely.
Dark Matter 
Leave a comment