Filmy tongue stuttering home
movies onto a white wall is proof
enough: I was once
a kid, falling toward the lens,
his arm reaching into frame
to steady me. I have that
arm and, for five seconds, all of him
in a pale blue Easter suit,
waving and waving,
have how that wave boils down
to what he saw beyond the machine:
impossible part of the picture
lost to a past past my reach.
Now his body’s in that place.
The world keeps the ball rolling.
I see things unfold on TV
all the time: a man in a jungle,
melting through his noose,
the Lindbergh Baby, badly chewed,
in a sepia still. I see through
the rumors of his body’s condition
when found, all murk and heat,
glimmering against the white wall,
each erasure, each image.