What is poetry, but
a language of the dead.
It’s an informal dance,
a shared cigarette.
Poetry is
but a one night stand.
It’s a wine ring left,
sheets, stained
between strangers.

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What is poetry, but
a language of the dead.
It’s an informal dance,
a shared cigarette.
Poetry is
but a one night stand.
It’s a wine ring left,
sheets, stained
between strangers.

Kyle’s
Camel
cigarette
smoke
lingers in the air
creeping in my window
wishing me to dare
take another drag
see what you’ve been missing
though if I did decide
to have another kissing
I’d like to think
it would be mid winter
jangling down the streets
of New York City banter
admiring sleepy windows
with a stranger I barely know
after leaving the Wreck Room
now long since closed
and wondering if she feels
the same way I do
taking a long hot drag
while
trying to seem cool
knowing nothing about her
yet desperately wanting to
and they would taste like Brooklyn
they would be Pall Mall Menthol
crisp and clear and clean
like ice on the verge of thaw
we’d be cracking up.
Heavy
cologne
and
cigarette
smoke
are
gifts
from
the
city,
of
the
people,
seated
in
the
laundromat.
I remember it vividly.
Fresh
pine
sun
kissed
trail
the
gifts
from
the
forest,
of
the
land,
seated
upon
Mt.
Whitney.
I remember it vividly.
Sharing
a shot
with
Alex.