Ashes to ashtrays, a smoke, a praise.

There is something indemnifying
about a cigarette outside in the rain,
under cover of veranda or eave.
The calmness looking out into water,
fire in your hand, livening your mind.
I contemplate the droplets
and forget about the days,
standing on the edge of rain,
breathing foreign haze.
On the border of dry and calm,
and sopping and sad,
I hover.
I feel the expulsion of my lungs into moisture.
A single droplet falls and ruins my cig,
but not my smoke,
and when I feel a cough or choke,
my time on the edge
of security and mortality is done.

Standing On A Corner

I feel unfettered.
A dagger finally pulled
from a deep wound.
I feel my legs can stretch,
my lungs can move.

A hearty dose of self-actualization
and a stolid sprinkle of understanding.
Here is the light.
Right above me, behind the shadows
and dust.

Everything is sharper somehow,
more natural and sudden.
Each line and angle gives
way to the next, swiftly,
calmly, like the wind about
a flag; crisp, snapped to,
but without violence.

I stride now, excitement
touched up my joints,
settling in the muscle,
rapping the bone in spray.

My neck is straight, and it
turns for hopeful windows
of inspiratory secrets,
small moments of
pedestrianism holding
golden hymns to beauty,
kindness or wisdom.