Woven smog

There are no more solvents to drink.

No more throats to clear.

I am Winter's child and I have
come to hold you in my arms.

I am Winter's child and I remember the
garments you once wore with
tiny threads gliding throughout
and lofting their ends on air.

I am going to seek you out and
together we'll smoke the world's
finest Marijuana while counting
cars on the overpass.

Their exhausts lofting like thread,
coming to rest nowhere in particular.


Ray Strickland Jr. Dec. 2010

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