By Peter Halstead

And have you seen the photographer's dark
Art on the pale pink beach, the stark

White wicker chair eyelined in Vaseline,
Washed in beach plum red and green,

Stylized as the decorated
Moon that cannot from its sea-rose

Bed airbrush sparks of morning's
Slough, the movie moon that ties

The sheen of rhyme, the passing thunderhead
Of skies to the ocean's needy drone,

The camera of the time that brings
The tiny pin of dawn, the lightning

Flash of day that fill the reeds with chrome,
The joints of mirrored strobe where sun

Dispels the darkroom glare of black and
White, the growing voice of sand

At night; have you seen since
You were young, as young as all these hints

Of streaming air and endless sky, these
Furies in the glaze, as waning dune and sea

Combine to form on blades of spray
Shining diamonds in the haze,

The flaming eyes of night, the residue
Of tide and star, rendezvous

And pivot of the seesaw light
Where, underneath an empty life-

Guard's chair, the smallest detail of the grass
Refills our guarded life; as in a photo’s

Dying view, our eyes reflect the fire
And in its sun reflect our youth?