The seventies burnt in orange and brown corduroy,
scratched, stretched and held together with Scotch
tape. The eighties smoldered in somber florescent
hues, peppier, yet more thoughtful. In my head
I keep black and white images, a Polaroid holding
nothing in color but your lips pursed in a question
beneath a piano. At night we were safe. The flash lit
nothing but your nose, the faded page of your cheeks,
your sweater washed out at the edges. My albums
spin with a skip, my movies look awful in high-def.
I love you in still-life without the hope of movement,
in memory. Fidelity is the tragedy of technology.