Mirage
© Suzanne Bosworth


He was a flourish.
A scribble in black and aquamarine
running off the page, exuberant, wayward as air.
A circle, dashed off and incomplete:
part fish, part rune,
part shadow.
An oasis shimmering in white heat.

Close up
an empty palm vainly grasping at mirrors.
Nothing more than a pale wash:
An indistinction. Shallow pools
drying in fierce light.
A desert of sticks.