PASSE-PARTOUT

I open the photo’s windows
to air it. It’s been shut up for some time.
like so many summer-house pasts.

You’re on the balcony. In your old favourite
position; standing; you’re wearing the earthly coloured
tight-fitting costume of planes: a tiled
roof the pine’s inflatable anorak,
patched in-between with sea
in places where the branches tore
playing with strong winds.
The orchards are at high tide
they’re up to the telegraph poles
and lemons dangle from the wires
unripe festive bulbs.

You’re lowering the sun.
You’re roll up the awnings crushing
canvas flowers. Impatiently you rotate
the motion as thought shade were scarce.

So far the photo’s behaving logically.
Until I appear, a paranoiac newcomer
to the image;  as if by plastic removal.

Though I was beside you all along
joint-owner of tide and orchards
seated just behind you
in my very cosy pliant  smile
in now seems
as if I’ve just been added to the photo.
With my present face, dark gaze
long its tail dragging on the balcony
as if I’d been invited by the official darkness.
Not breathing I stretch as if wanting
to get you away from the awning
so no further shade  quarry
will fall on you.
You’re already sunless enough.
How was the photo updated.
How did real time get into paper time.

With what familiarity did pain
speak to the inanimate’s apathy.
Might the inanimate be something deeper.
Perhaps the animate’s former lives
that at the first painful opportunity
suffer a relapse?

Passe-partout