I don’t especially like to be photographed

It used to be golden to keep one’s face
on a canvas fixed unblinking
long after the meat the bones the fatty organs
had rotted away

Now it is nearly impossible to do otherwise
We slather images of ourselves onto the very electrons
and identify humans not by humanity but by image
When did it become so important to know what a person looks like?

My cherished secret hope is to become one of those ghosts
those unquiet with blurred faces
who will never be known again
In an age of words and images to be nothing more than memory
and when nobody is left to remember
to be as dead as the billions before