Lens
You, caught in the act
Of changing.
Layer by layer,
disappear your
hips,
leave your torso clad in
nothing.
You, weary
eyes, accosting
the observer.
Wrinkling beneath
your young girl’s
makeup,
you ask why
me? A poet’s
lens can blur
the creases,
a camera tells
no lies.
Trust me.
That's deep. I love the ending, especially the piece about how poetry can cover things-- and, I think, at the same time, thought it's not mentioned-- reveal things that photos cannot. Well done.
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