In this heat-tricked mirror, he resembles
the crafty miles that creep up with vital intent.
They toe his wavy lines.

A pair of vultures glide by with lean routes,
marking bold exes against the golden bearded
grain of an age-stained chart.

Sudden runs to foul-scented organs blur:
A strong swoop followed by the fleshy balance on
thresholds of life's tipping.

He discovers with scaled-down calculus,
our blue-vaulted distances, still moist but listing,
travel in closed cycles.

It can't  be defeated, this curse, lifting
ungainly loads while his broad back is pushed against
walls of jaundiced fingers.

Tens of peckish tips, wait for their victuals.
They smell his thinning blood buried in the gusty
legends of cornered maps.