the closest thing you have left to a soul
is the smoke from your cigarette drifting out the window
of a hotel room, number nine, and what little
you can remember of the little love you made..
from Joe Bolton's Smoke and Gold; Cedar Key 1988
--
owghadwuthaveidonetomeself? ineededalife.true,thisisyourcity,takeit-it'syours;ineveraskedittobemine.blech.
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fallen rain. (: