The birds get louder at dusk
each velvet turning in its purple rusk
young bison chase us to and fro, monsieur;
we never know where or when they stop-
some people say there is no smoke without a fire

I breathe in.
I breathe out smoke-
I breathe out smoke.

We lived
in this ***** of opiates
wondering whether
their opinion really operated
on our open minds
and if so-
how could we stop its course?

In these twilight zones-
these sinking waking hours
thoughts were reborn to dust-
ashes
the old thrill returned
me to my purpose- borne ship
pilot-stars gazing upon a pivotal
soar of connection
Stretching out into the silence and straining for something
all souls once knew;
the thrill of living despite it all-

The knowledge that I am still
enchanted
ecstatic
ensnared
by life itself.