I draw a gold door in the dark
and leave a blue ghost standing in the water.

One of me is leaving.
One of me is already a memory of leaving.

I have no teeth
and still I break the night the way the tuskfish breaks a shell —
quietly, completely,
with a color that does not belong to ordinary mouths.

The rabbit knows this weather.
The Cup cannot keep me.
Tuesday is when I am easiest to see.

What am I,
if I am both the path that climbs
and the animal of light that stays behind
after the path is gone?