Mirage

You don't shimmer like a mirage.
You shimmer like the heat
before a mirage.

Walking through summer
is wading upstream
in carbon fire.

You don't flee to anywhere
describable. The streets
are longer than day or night.

One event leads
to another. Cars pass.
Roads throw reflections

of roads into the air.
The sun collapses
at its zenith,

while you forget
barked shins, wrists
pressed by dark prints.

Is it really six months
since you last smiled
and meant every tooth?

You see the road
as a swamp inverted,
moaning steam

from its pooled oil,
to pierce the glossed sky.
Concrete kisses sand.

The journey is long.
So is your fuse,
soft boiler, keeping time

with injury and a flask,
spiking grit from your eyes
while waiting for your ride