His black face blurs,

melting against the dark,

plate-glass window.

He told himself

he wouldn’t stagger,

Fuck,

stand up on weak knees.

His hot

molten steel,

soft skin.

Obscured memories watch him

like an eagle-eyed intruder,

the age of murder

cuts against his reflection.

He turns

one way –

a ghost releases him.

He shifts

another –

the Lord teases him

with salvation.

He studies each line

etched into his life,

a hurtful truth

emerges,

and time

smuggles

years away

like hidden treasure.

His fingers

trace against

the outline

of his forgotten youth,

half-believing he’d

find his sweetheart

smothered in rose petals.

He touches

what’s left

of himself.

His forefinger

trembling against

the face

of a woman

shimmering in

the sun,

behind him.

And like life,

she evaporates,

cutting across

his stare,

leaving him flat-footed

in despair.

A jet plane

cruises high overhead,