In an Eggleston photograph,
Or a Jasper Johns lithograph,
In Jim Morrison’s epitaph,
Or a Marcel Proust paragraph.

In a stain on a shirt,
Or a lipstick on a collar,
In a loose button after a flirt,
And the marks of a folded Dollar.

In a snapshot in a frame,
Or a concert’s ticket stub,
In an unspoken word of blame,
Or a membership card to a club.

In memorabilia on the wall,
Or marked days on the calendar,
In faded wallpaper in the hall,
Or the synthetic smell of lavender.

In a gnome in the garden,
Or a scent by Elizabeth Arden,
In a light behind a curtain,
I seek proofs of life.