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Nov 2019
This morning's cigarette
I bought at the airport in Rome.
It wavers in a cold district
as I question my romances.

Dear cigarette, little acid stub
on a tile, you lived your span
in a long winding fume:
May my own life stick
to her hands like smoke.
Evan Stephens
Written by
Evan Stephens  44/M/DC
(44/M/DC)   
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