Look at me; I can see my reflection in the glass
doors as I pull them wide.

I was running before a storm
and I could smell the rain
above the dusted plains
heavy and gray, what held it there?

She ran down the road—
I felt the dust in my throat:
dust yellow like chalk,
like a memory.

Look at me; I can see my reflection in the glass
chandeliers that clink overhead.

Tempest-tossed in the rising wind
that sent things into flight.
She—I?—bit her fingernails
and looked around with widened eyes.

Saw the fences and the power lines.

And the sky seeping strange above the plains
but it was not rain
at all.
It was only a scratch in the film.

Look at me; I can see my reflection in the glass
face of the watch on your wrist.

Hardly a minute’s ticked over your pulse.
I saw it all in a glimpse.

I was running before a storm—
I could smell the dust of the colorless plains—

Now I wonder if the rain never came
in the end.
If it was only a thought in my head.