Your voice, sickle echo, rebounds
off the wall. I, a thousand Argos
look at myself in your mirror skin
for a few seconds
but the slightest noise drives you away.
I see you leave through the door of the book,
the atlas ceiling, the floor board, the glass page.
You leave me without a pulse
or voice, without a face, no mask like a naked man
in the middle of the Street of Stares.
You’re the one I talk to when I forge the sun
with your footsteps.