Tuesday, January 21, 2014


But how?
ought we 

to breathless-
ly behold—

the lovely look 
of any little
thing that arrests us—when, for instance 

that impossibly 
clean—and comely smoke 

of purest cold—
tinged so 
beguilingly reddish- 

gold by the gaudy 
charmingly soulless 

morning sun 
that wreathes around 

such pretty lines
of glinting 
idle expressway cars—

is the very same stuff 
that's making
our breathing 

more than 
a little 
interestingly hard?