My cousin and I are documenting
our lives in photographs
although we think we are making art: 
twenty-five years later 
the photos and slides stand neatly stacked 
in an old steamer trunk
I might open twice a year. 
 
Like the time we hurried through
the old railroad tunnel in Steep Rock Park: 
stumbling through to the other side – 
already too dark with clouds
to take a decent photograph;
watching an otter breaking
the surface of the Shepaug river,
ice in his whiskers catching the faltering light 
just before it began to snow,
our breath coming in faster and faster puffs 
as we climbed the hill,
realizing the road was gone; 
the way home lost somewhere 
in that abandoned tunnel; 
finally re-tracing our steps
back through the rock hewn passageway, 
lighting our route with an old zippo,
emerging as the indifferent air
snapped with a cold defiance,
and the car’s windshield
shimmered like a black hole,
sucking up the last of the light
as stars appeared one by one,
the door handle snapping
once as the thin layer of ice
broke to let us return.