373

A bright water ring on a black ash sky,
stained gray by the twilight and streaked by cloud,
guides me as I move away from the crowd
which might make me suffer or make me die.
The air is moist, the oxygen is shy,
fleeing from breathing while, wrapped in a shroud,
my torso negotiates the air allowed
to my heart at night as my lungs reply:
“With a wheeze we wail and hum out the truth
that life is only as good as one’s last breath
and that every lost breath equals lost youth.”
With that, I confronted my coming death
and put 20 bucks in the photo booth
and left the pics on your coffee table.

 

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