Polaroid Box

A Sonnet

Our albums were a box of polaroids,
shuttered away after that blinding flash,
for life was a snapshot after the crash,
wind through trees, watered mist, imagist void
hidden behind the black samurai mask
of a skeletal Ramses the second
gone from the father after a second
the T-shirt of the sassy boy from class.
I trusted him just enough to share you,
my sweet princess of the drowned nunnery
when the wind leaves crimson leaves muttering
and we drank cool hand Luke’s desert milk blue.
	The master and the student read scriptures
	when words will simply not do, here’s pictures.