Gelid morning.Walk outside to smoke.Try to clear my head.Wake up to the day.
How suddenly strange to be seventy.
I’m supposed to be deadBut, obviously, I’m not.My 80th birthday (Like a cloud…
Am I brittle bark, twistingbranch reaching skyward to pale winter wind destined to shatter orglowing, boiling sappouring upward…
My voice was formedby cigarettes and whiskey,but sounds how I think,says what I must.