Here's a poem about a photograph.
It's called "Portland, 1968."
You stand as rocks stand, to which
the sea reaches in transparent waves of longing.
They are marred, finally.
Everything fixed is marred.
And the sea triumphs, like all that is false,
all that is fluent and womanly.
From behind, the lens opens for your body.
Why should you turn?
It doesn't matter who the witness
is for whom you are suffering, for whom
you are standing still.