"The days are getting long now,"
he said.
"Short," I replied,
"winter ... short; you know-it's January."

"Yes, yes," he agreed. "Short."

I saw his eyes shaking,

I saw the sand pour from his wrists—
The fl.ash in my mind when I said good-bye.

I turned to look at his face as he closed his door;
I saw broken pages clenched in his hands.

His lips limped an uneven "good-bye."
His lips were the color of oxygen,
his teeth were dry in his open mouth.

Death was the door closing,
in his hands shutting,
in my mind knowing, not asking why.