Smoking with my heroes  

Saturday, August 1, 2009

I've always liked how smoking sounds
said the poet to the thief
in dancing tendrils
on a bank under
rain. It drizzlingly
mimics
the sounds of small papers
crinkling around their leafy delights
and lights
catching her cheeks.
I check -
she's succeeded.
She sharply sucks
and I foolishly jibber
I write because I have to.

And I don't even know if she smokes.

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