not one thing
like a smoke in open pitch darkness
and a silence
that lets you hear the cigarette
crippling and smouldering
slowly, so slowly
there's a dizziness
in the stinking smoke
there's a death and a stormy beauty
that you never want to end
when your eyes droop
and your voice drops down
to an unconscious, deep and dry whisper to sit in the hit, and dark, and love the episodic trains rattling the tracks filled with unknown silhouettes passing by seldom horns from the far passing trucks distant from the business and noises
of the flyover, followed by,
a phantom path
the grasses nearby ruffle
with the movements of
illusionistic twilight, stray dogs
and in worthy company
this moment now leaves me wordless