Your photo

Your photo, now out of my eye's ken,
in its new transparent glass frame,
sits on Shakespeare The complete works.

I am so scared, I avoid your eyes,
I can see, reflected, its numerous voices fall
on my listless hand.

I who framed you
escaped you, leaving you behind
in a wilderness of waiting.

I don't want to hear its frozen words,
near this pointing finger, the cauldron of accusation,
near this merciless truth.