A blur. A bubble. A troubling expanse
of darkness with a fog falling
all around, making it even harder
to see what night is withholding.
I putz listlessly holding a cigarette
between my starchy lips.
Poetry is a blanket, but one
that offers no warmth, which is okay,
because it’s been warm enough lately.
It’s been uncomfortably warm.
I don’t particularly care
for that kind of warmth.
The kind of warmth I prefer
comes from the soft arms of a girl
with uncanny blue eyes
as she folds me up into herself.
-r. miller
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