Where Are You?

-for my friend

You are always smashing through glass doors
(soft tissues sliding open, dropping little red teeth),
through store windows, satellite mirrors, empty bottles,
that the events fuse, and the glass splashes
out like weather vanes or planets
spinning where day and night garble
to a star’s light refracting the broken pieces, 
each observable only in echo,
a tidal bore of broken sunrises,
illuminating the expansion of your dust cloud body
as though what shines 
were key to where you are.