What is this poison,
that dims hope like light in a room,
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.

*2011