Summer of Love
In the summer of 2015 I heard a song.
I do not remember which one.
But I remember the feeling: as if someone had pulled my heart out of my chest,
turned it round and round, twisted it, showed me what it could really do,
then put it back and said — go do it again.
After that, photographs were not enough.
somewhere around here, the photographs stopped.
Miami, 2016
Some summers never really happened.
They survived as colour, as music,
as impossible, endless wanting.
The photographs had found their voice.
