Under purple skies
near end of twilight,
with the red-orange eye
closing on the horizon,
he stood on a cracked salt pan.
A figure he dared not look at
stood beside him.
In the deepening dark
he asked, Is that it, boss?
Is that all? Is it done?
Out of the corner of his eye
he saw the figure nod once,
twice, and then turn
striding slowly forward in
the darkening desert,
stopping once to wait,
extending a hand,
until the man turned
looking down
and followed.
A swamp-deep voice
came back to him
and congealed in his ears
on a black wind.
You got a hell of a nerve.
But you got here,
and this is where you are now.
As the eye closed and
enveloped him,
he saw he was alone,
and smelled the ancient sea
dried, crusted beneath
tattered boots.
There were no footprints
to lead him onward,
but he followed anyway
as that was all
he had ever done.
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