Photograph, Italy

Sean D. Harvey

She drifts, languid,
in Venetian dreams
of gondolas and
shuttered stone homes.

And daily for me
the devastation of memory:
of the dawns in her smiles
and the sunsets in her eyelids.

She journeys further
from interlaced fingers
and walks in the rain and
purple tulips in a vase,

while I hold a 
photo, taken at night,
where the street-lamps
highlight ringlet hair.

And this angelic vision,
framed, behind glass,
reflects my waning face,
next to hers, God-lit.