The vast morning air
smells like a wet cigar.

I can’t decide how far
I’ve come since the last time

the rising sun exploded
all over the page

of this most fortuitous age,
nor decide if my youth’s virile rage

has fuel enough to stay lit.
Forgive me – it’s been a minute

since I’ve given a shit,
one hot torturous minute,

and now I’m once again
in the thick of caring,

staring through the cracks
in the glass at the fast paced display

of motion and color,
fury and sound.

It surrounds and encompasses
my teetering will.

Hills roasting in the once-a-day heat,
speaking in tongues.

Dissonance leaking
through a hole in the world.

-r. miller


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