Through your lens the sequoia swallowed me   
like a dryad. The camera flashed & forgot. 
I, on the other hand, must practice my absent- 
mindedness, memory being awkward as a touch   
that goes unloved. Lately your eyes have shut 
down to a shade more durable than skin’s. I know you   
love distance, how it smooths. You choose an aerial view,   
the city angled to abstraction, while I go for the close   
exposures: poorly-mounted countenances along Broadway,   
the pigweed cracking each hardscrabble backlot.   
It’s a matter of perspective: yours is to love me   
from a block away & mine is to praise the grain- 
iness that weaves expressively: your face.