night bled into a vague morning,
and there was no discernible line to indicate an end of one thing
or a beginning to another.
concept of time at that hour was a slow knife extracting itself from thin flesh:
it did not exist without concept of suffering.
pale ghosts of regret left everything cold
and i shivered in fog that stuck to cuts on face;
made bruises slick beneath buzzing powerlines.
the air sounded as horror looks;
i hacked into water heavy with reflection.
cigarette smoke clung to chapped lips and found its way to lungs.
lungs filled to throat.
i inhaled. i exhaled.
nothing shined and everything rested opaque beneath a sky anchored in its own defiance.
i sat there smoking and stared holes through shape-shifting shadows.
i sat there smoking,
feeling like the color wheels we made in grade school:
- when you spun them fast
all there value was lost in white.
and i sat there smoking, still in fog, hating god, waiting for flames.
then light began teasing wet ground on the west side of the pond.
i chased it with split eyes and walked in that direction;
darkness followed close behind.
a mass of round rock rose from the ground in yellow glow like a harvest moon. i perched myself on top in awkward fashion, but the moon didn’t want me there
and i fell to earth without welcome.
i stood, and wobbled, and went to myself instead. the self was scared of me, and i fell again.
i looked up and found the holes in the tree line where dawn broke into gold pieces. i stared hard at the sun and lit another cigarette.
the sun stared harder back at me, and a mutual agreement hung there
between us in the clearing sky:
neither of us would rise.