All of a sudden, heard a knock at the door—

I am in a staring match
with a dead

man.
Air bears
the ground I stand on,
three hundred years—
(Make it in, make it in.
An expert at poking
small holes
in aluminum cans.)
The sky shines more
blue in the eastern sun—

closed—
oxygen and nitrogen
tighter in the atmosphere.
The exhale of his eyes
to the clouds behind him.