Randall Dean Scott

                                           The Million Times Also Fade

It’s been long enough
now to need
a photo to see her vividly,

the million times
with my eyes
I made cutout dolls.

The contour of her body
etched into my existence
my fingers tracing her cheeks and
lips, hers and mine
finding each other’s jawbones,

the million times
now resigned
to a photo.

Yet her New Zealand accent
still as fresh like the first
breath taken when
zipping the tent door down
the lingering scent of
campfire smoke
evidence of a fire but

no flames

the million times and
I still wonder
these days where did
the Kiwi go?