Fata Morgana

My eyes on you try to be my eyes in you

looking down into the hole in a desert floor—

I’m looking at you looking into your days, a fiction, I know no particulars, can’t breathe rain smell the instant after rain begins, not there, not in your nostrils, not in the desert you grew from, not at the burial ceremony, invisible from transcontinental flights, irrelevant to jets, blind to the canyons slung lissome and the mourners, you, I imagine, clutching sand, clutching clay.