You don’t remember where you took the photograph.
On another day, you would have discarded it,
blurred, out of focus, not at all what you were going for.
But you did not, and on this day it calls to you,
abstract and bright, a brothel dream of color,
a Japanese temple, At this point, years later
it only has meaning in the now.
Perhaps that is how all things should be.
Even the skins we have shed. Give them time enough
and even the worst mistakes become art.
About this poem.
About the photograph, art, and life.