October 2015

i am become a

smoking gun where i was--

where we were-- when

the cicadas died.


i asked what for

while we all lied

on the muddy floor

for all the pavement was worth.


i burnt off the tips

of my fingers and his lips--

they feel smoother now,

but i am all wires and never veins.


there is purity.

there is snow, in me.

these 12 steps of sobriety, helping me--

helping us-- forget how we breathe.