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.
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 10:04 AM UTC
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.
