hypno

it's not everyday that you turn to dust
right before my eyes, rosewater gaze
still staining the ground where you last
stood, fixed on the mercurial horizon of a
pantheon I could never reach by foot.

you could, and your footprints are marked
by drops the bleeding sun left in its wake.

there is only the canyon sand after
too much to drink at 2 am, when the sky
is a cracked celestial bowl that spills
its water reluctantly onto parched eyelids,
right before glass lightning comes
to bid you this final goodnight, goodbye.

afterward, the wind comes to blow you
underneath my fingernails so that
I rub you into my skin, particles sinking in,
an inertia of infinte beginnings, endings,
signs. you have already gone. I remain
with the dust, the glass, the night.