The Complete Lack of Home Movies

from my childhood has allowed our stories
to deteriorate into alternate versions
like some newfangled computer game.
We can change the background from sepia

to neon, to the somber suffocating purple
of the old church. We smudge bordered photos,
clutching black and white against color’s
complete disappearance, sunburn and blush

and goddamn pure happiness fading into
the blurry haze of bad color tv, all tint,
no contrast. Ah, memory flickers, film breaking
from endless splices of the heart.

In the dark room unlit by nostalgia’s fuse,
our sock puppets turn on us.

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