Quitting, or a few in a bunch
I peek inside at white-tipped cylinder promises.
Tonight’s the night. Inhalation and withdraw.
I try not to stare at the molten face crackling
between index and middle. I daub at glass and phenethyl phenylacetate. Then snuff.
My shadow is two things: William B. Davis
in practice and a three-eared rabbit. My mouth
empties a plume of eruptive columns. Once,
we ritually laid naked while the other’s body
was encased in such clouds.
Mustached man in white hat, shaded camel
and your 18-body-leaning-out-of-kitchen-window’s-
view, told me so. I’ll try a match an ode. Like
a chalice before slaughter. Light the last
Playing with my literal self, again. Some movie plot
and a bad thought. Coconut incense, a glass
of bathroom water. Ruminating daylight.
Keep me company. Tell me again:
what was it they said that made dark