by Rocco de Giacomo

1.
They appear in photos of dreary hiking trails
and flat, grey cloud. You see them in shots
of blazing ski-hills and universal
street corners, walking in khakis and blues,
eyes curb-bound towards the origins
of pictures that never made the albums.
Their faces are the evidence of fingers on glass.
You love them as they loiter the backgrounds
of black and white cafes, skulk among
birthday Polaroids. In wine cellar vigils
like this, you speak in slight tongues, names
trace your lips as these changelings slip
harmlessly from frame to frame.

2.
In rare photos they look up,
having heard something.
Here, their eyes are pin points
on smooth conspiring faces;
uninvited guests caught in the light.

Who would have thought
that today, you would remember?