There presented, a narrow and wide gate.
The Mirror Gate lay between—
with grayed engravings and rusted edges
where frames had cracked under extreme weather changes.
—It hadn’t given itself to being a standard option.
Turn, friend, your eyes.
He’s not planning on dying “anytime soon”
Blocking harmful blue light from the atmosphere
and saliva forms in the corners of his mouth.
Without water, is the body dust?
Which part of you do I breathe in thick air—
your brain, your heart, blood?
Round here you call to say hello in silence
and watch with a swollen eye
colder now—wonder if you are wearing shoes
or if they knew you wouldn’t be needing them.
—cold friend, turn your eyes.
**this poem previously appeared in Copper Nickel