January 19, 2008

One bad Friday night

The icicles form strange shapes in the air
& a cigarette is burning down
between my fingers -

a cold sort of fire,
and it will turn to ash,
same as any other.

I will go home and live my life,
the adventure over.
It had to end,

really, & really,
I am almost glad. I know now

where I belong. Not to this
burning dreamscape,
but to the concrete
facts of life. To truth,
then, let me drink
to truth. And to my life
return.

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