Tuesday, May 10, 2011

When you look into smoke
as it gathers in front of a lamp,
it looks like any other breath.
Both are carried up by the wind.
They end up somewhere in clouds.
An airplane passes by. A child
stares out the window,
a few inches of acrylic, and
falls asleep. For a moment
his hair brushes the smoke
or breath that once came
from your lips, which are
raspberry in the city light.

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