Dusk
Dusk
The plane goes where Icarus could not go
after the last time he tried that stunt,
its aisles grief pews to the few who know
the terminus. Jesus recedes like my father’s hair
when I last saw him, and he clutched my hands
like one does a prayer book.
Flying to him in Lesotho now
changes roles, the hour commissions me
to his day, a day and time that, like everything,
cannot grasp that it too shall pass away.
When the plane lands I have his heart in me
as I walk through customs into the day.
At the clinic I do not know who I am;
summer dries up, and the sun dies too.
Comments