And one quarter of a cigarette.
My pink toes in flip flops in dead winter.
Snow, dripping down the church gutter
across the street like inter-dimensional glass.
The light glimmering off my own eyelashes
as I look directly at the sun.
Gilad explains that he can tell
when his body is in pain.
(It seems I am collecting diabetics)
There is something about their proximity to death
that urges them to flinch.
The rest, us:
Doping up just to come down.
Freezing just to melt.
Writing and thinking only about our selves.
Pleasure twinkling at the edge of all these
limited scenes of self-destruction.
