caked with cigarette smoke?

The sour bath of

sins

that spoils the fertility of our souls,

like the black sap clogging the

crimson 

holes in our conscience.

What is this

medication

that murmurs obediently in the tunnels

of your flesh like a blind fly trapped in an hourglass?

The thick soup that sinks the dredged 

pulse of life as it croaks and awakens in

hesitation

for the next perpetual dawn.

A sign tacked like an eviction notice in the skulls

of your dreams, telling them:

“I’m sorry Sir, but for this magnitude of pain,

there is no cure.”

And still like an earthquake, death

trembles at your fingertips like an

old, worn man— asking, perpetually,

“When’s the next train to Calgary?”

I have not the guts to tell him 

the smoke has held me 

captive

all this time. 

©