Photography

It was always
horizons
for you, in shades of forest and blue and foam.
You framed them
carefully, adjusted the light, fiddled
with the crisp edges of distant mountainous clouds.

It was always pebbles for me,
the ones I polished in my hand,
rubbing away the grit as I
watched you reel in the vast empty space
and settle it beside us.

I don't know where this came from (II)

Every night that I wake
in the dead of night, the death of night
when the sun is just a tint of grey in the east,
the crickets humming their summer tune-
I forget
for just a moment-
and then you punch another hole in my chest.