The Time Machine

Trying to repair an old work of art
Where the photo’s emulsion had fallen apart,

I fixed some glue to what looked like screen,
Planning to set it back in the scene,

But got the binding chemical on me instead,
So that the image was virtually wed

To the finger I was supposedly using
To suavely abet the future fusing

Of errant particles which had escaped
From the concrete past where they were shaped

Into the present where they malinger
Slightly more fluidly on my finger,

Defying their flat one-dimensional trends
In favor of more personal 3-d ends,

So that now I’m a part of history,
Or the past is partly part of me,

Whose ancient screen door only closes
When my finger predisposes,

Or opens when I choose to see
Its contents in posterity,

A slip in time which might restore
My wife behind that summer door.

January 1st, 1980