I lean back in the cooling breeze, the longed for dose wrought from the leaden heat of too much day, blowing smoke towards the stars. Pieces of the Perseus myth arrayed in slips and starts. Gray exhaust stretching towards the forgotten constellations, fire mingling with air and tobacco leaf. The tired rustle of this dark and restless street forgotten for a clouded breath. The collision of the insistent instance and the taught bow of that abundant tomorrow.
The halo gathers and disperses, that silvered collusion of smoke and breath and light, the caught ionized particulates that shine as I add another slender tendril to the carbon load of heaven. The moment suspends ache in the very air, slurring the breathing, fixing wind and branch and starlight with the rattling of dog collars and the chime of chain link fencing. The light blind skies and the rooftop stammers and the ripples that pulse and reach through the atmosphere. The flat affect of the face of god.
The cigar flecks and smolders, idle between fingers, clenched between teeth. The spark exudes its usual persuasions, ember to ash and curling smoke. Nicotine absorbed through tongue and cheek, a dozen worming poisons to light the blood and stir the settled debts of the soul. I smoke away these empty hours, abandoning plot and contention. A life lived by lottery, whiled away in stars and ashes. A gathering of words that reach towards something, only abruptly to end.