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Addiction


 
 

Nothing eloquent in the tobacco
stains that will never resemble
sumptuous berry rubies ripening
clean on the branch, 
his fingers, like stubs,
burnt bumblebees crushed.

I bury my chin in his beard
harsh smoke, stiff scaffolding.

Parody in longing for a brittle touch.
Hideous proximity to the addiction.
Song of the shortened life.
Love of the kick.
Excerpted from The Shape of Caught Water
available from Red Mountain Press
or directly from the author: covelli@cybermesa.com

http://redmountainpress.us/

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