about picking up smoking
and leaving the butts
in a bucket outside,
around back.
Collect slow and sure
like a bad habit
or the roast of an
animal and its hide.
Been thinking about
drinking the road,
swerving the twin
lines, yellow and glowing.
Quick, slicked
rained concrete
on a cooler night
where stars scatter.
Been thinking about
fixed defeat,
built-in regrets
of the highest order.
And yet, I’ll breathe
through all of them
until my breath
is no more.
—N.A.
Mouth Thorn 