Developer reduces the silver halide crystals
transforming light to precious metal.
Then stop bath, fixer, water wash.
A moment frozen in a magick mirror
of alchemy and chemistry.
The now becomes something made—
an object, an inverted window to minutes ago.
The shelter of the Claiborne Oaks
cut down to make way for I-10
now replaced by painted trees
on cement columns supporting the expressway
suffering the generation loss
of successive copying.
I look out over Tulane Avenue toward the river
Big Charity stands a toothless specter
the broken eyes of the tuberculosis hospital
red brick in the foreground.
A handsome man stands at the corner
of N. Robertson and Louisa texting
making the commute home worthwhile.
The smell of vinegar instantly
brings back memories of darkrooms.
Images rise to the surface in the developer tray.
Light became silver
transferred by light to silver again.
White paper transforms to ghostly icons
the burning building on Canal St
before the roof collapsed,
fire trucks and onlookers
the smell of wet char—
a drying rack of present moments
captured at 1/500 of a second.
Sorting through old negatives
an accidental shot captured on
an unnumbered first frame
underexposed silver phantom
of a sleeping friend
instantly invoking long hours delving
deep into richly loaded discussions
of magickal pagan kaos philosophies.
The irony of starting to read a Teutonic grimoire
the same day you say you’re moving to Finland.
Connecting years later time has written
its difference on each of us
but also a powerful reminder
that deep friendship can abide.
