Negatives
(Photographic Archive, Imperial War Museum)

You'd think an unnamed General, on glass,
safe? But some Private washed him improperly
in the Somme, so he just keeps on developing.
His forehead, bluffed with craters.

Gelatin's no better. Too warm, too moist,
and there's a precise species of mould ready
to bombard its plane. Vegetation's lowest order
reclaims these trenches.

Even envelopes rebel. Acid leaches
from each pore, syringes out its silver
to spatter the illusion or roll time's gas.
The stumbling, enveloped again.

Sudden heat is fatal. Wipes each
slate clean, each little foursquare pane.
Images peel. Their quantum flakes detach -
a miniature snowstorm in black.

So it's all kept cool. Under control.
In the darkroom's Martian light another face
gets half-way saved. The General's two
pressed dimensions, dying to explode.