Bloody Marys, Cigarettes

Swift – the air smiling,
flowing weird across
the tops of roofs.
We bite down hard.
Shards of heat collecting in the street.
We bite down hard
and the air bites down harder.
A filigreed casket
crashing through whatever.
Humidity wheeze.
Some sleazy peasants picking scabs.
Holiest of snuff.
Lusty and buffed,
pulling skin from our teeth.
One more chance to fight
boredom on its homely turf.

-r. miller

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