I could not follow;
he told me this himself, spinning
words like thread
onto my spool of promises.

It was dark; I carried the dawn
trapped in a jar still smeared
with honey and fingerprints,
and it tried to break
the horizon of heavy glass;
I set it free later.

His glass was two-thirds rainwater
of unknown appellation, one-third
sky’s blood – which is not the same –
and he emptied it standing
waist-deep, a sodden Apollo,
in the river that had not run
there until then.

Maybe it felt
like absolution.
Maybe it didn’t
feel like anything.

I stood alone long after
realizing I was alone.

door (ben heine)