(Flash) Photography

So really the rosy forests, really
The standing blue and a picture of
You on the rocks, you by the resinous
Outcropping, cut-picked, piquing
Photographed rocks, weaving together
A dreamland veracity, the blowing
Wind and the lithe photography, ripped
On the white-scored edges, lipped
Grey, faded with dots of withering
Black (oh I could come to you
In the night, in your arms I would take
A million pictures, a million
More, and then a thousand, a hundred
Thousand still-shot pictures of your face):

The golden hues, fading in the so-dark
Edges, and then a dazzling array of
Shadows, gliding, dwelling under by the crannies, nooks,
Brooks of bristling like the shady leaves, even
Singing where the blurs, a kind of exalted
Singing glowing, and the microscopic
Burrs and crops: and where I stop, I lop
A clear-cut stream of dulcimer to the dulcet dark.