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.