This is a photograph of me

This is a photograph of me

It was taken from the future

and must be returned.

It will appear old,

waterlogged, with grey stains,

and when you touch it you will feel

rips and folds

and a scar

running through you like the branch of a river

funneling

between hills, culverts,

beneath a neglected highway,

bypassing a riotous retirement community,

before blooming

lethargically,

without finality,

in a shallow, weed-clogged lake.

(The photograph was taken 

from the future

in which I am soaking

just below the surface.

There is,

as you say

in your ancient, ardent language,

a distortion in the space/time continuum

but I know your microscopes

are expensive, extensive

and carefully calibrated:

You will look

long enough to spot me

watching you: my eyes

poking through

like a frog.)