Someone else

The mirage is nothing,
    it is still and flat.
         Only when figures pass,
cut over sight lines
   is there anything to see.
A flicker, sweeping across their feet,
             and in a blink I can see
                     around corners, looking at sky
    that should have dried up
days ago.

And when they go,
the sky goes too;
         horizons slack and lose
their curvings, lines diminish
into sand,
like that cheap plastic
        hourglass
which you unscrewed
 at the base,
          left an awful mess
on the windowsill.