to appear on the sidewalk at dusk,
so I took you out of my loss
and crushed you with the thistles
from the burned field to spread
across the doorways of my house.
Now, afraid to leave, I wander
the rooms and ask the mirrors
if they too own a memory
of reflecting you.
They, like you,
When the thunder speaks,
I open the windows to the hot house
for the first time,
how the backlit Sierras look
like a jagged cardiac line
pulsing against the horizon
before flatlining into the Great Basin,
and there you are again, outside
looking in, hand pressed to the screen
as the wind and rain pass through
a body that isn’t there.