pulling pictures
out of frames I struggle
to recall the names of
faces from past lives; I question,
is it the third? the fourth?
the fifth life? I approach, surely,
but who were theses people?
who was I? as I pack the frames
for gifting, donation, disposal,
I pack the photos for archival,
much like I pack the girl, ever-tinged
in a sorrow of worth on the horizon
pulling pictures
out of frames, I choose
to love the broken thing I am
