I looked for a good morning
under a sky that didn't feel right
the meteor showers can't end
just because night has
and daylight has broken
broken out
of the chrysanthemum cage
the starry starry night
had put in place
and when my good morning eclipsed
into a wilted noon
I decided to wait
wait out the day
and it slipped right by me
so I looked for a good night
and the night wasn't
as starry starry
as it had been before
but the meteors were still there
awaiting my delicate eyes
and when I saw the trail of fire
I knew I'd receive
a beautiful good morning.

she smelled like clementines
the year the winter became floral
and when the springtime cropped
up skeletons of flowers
she couldn't use her imagination and
they told her it was fine they
told her that was that
and this was this
and it was time for the winter
to stop blooming
who had ever heard of a floral winter, anyway?
so she packed away those
ideas of flight
and the winters became poison ivy
winding, wrapping themselves
spineless but wicked
around and around until they rested there
right there in her chest
choking her heart.

"There's an art to it."
She says as she
flicks the end
of her cigarette
into the dirt.
"To what?"
She sighs,
grinding the cigarette
into the ground
with the heel
of her shoe.
"Destroying yourself."

he's asked for
a cigarette

but he doesn't smoke
turns out his pockets
and is shot dead
in a pool of misplaced caution
tinged red
veins expelling
voices garbling
until there is darkness
because there is no heaven
and there is no hell

there's only the misplaced caution
of a man who never smoked
in a world of gunpoint and demand.