December 17, 2012

Mirage


The desert heat
numbs the world,
slowing me down,
tricking my memory.
At the airport,
planes avoid touching,
are somehow
still moving.
On my phone,
arrivals and messages
blur. No one can say
when your flight
might be landing,
whether I should
even be waiting,
in this terminal
where we all come
to practice departures,
or if you
are still searching,
approaching from afar,
an illusion,
shimmering up
from nothing,
like before.

12/10/12