You go unseen in every shot,
a kestrel plummeting to the kill.
You call my soul from behind the door,
lure me to the window. In abandon
my image becomes clairvoyant.
Innocence shifts in the fall-
ing light, a feather is trapped
in tintype. A lever turns,
the minute hand revealing
depth beneath my fabric.
From the threshold I release a nest
of mice. Your clarity of talons
exposes me, a man with wings
of sepia. Call, dear camera
klee-klee-klee-klee-klee-klee
and we will hunt for flames
hovering high over the candle cups.
Sandi Sartorelli
