we listen to birdspeak at four in the morning
our cigarettes flicker the ghostlight with embers
while headlights from nightcars climb quiet uphill
and we sit on the stairs smoking watching and listening
to the birdsongs at four in the morning.
we're awake not quite singing
but happy and slowly
inhaling inhaling
the smoke through our lungs and the world through our veins
-
and the breeze when it blows is
A Song All Its Own
and we're breathing and slowly
exhaling exhaling
the smoke from our lungs and the world from our veins
And we're sated with emptiness
chock full of Kerouac
the Duluoz bones that we share ache in tandem
reaching smoke-filled for meaning
and Buddha and meaning and
Buddha divine in Nirvana America
We sit on the stairs smoking watching waiting
for birdsong to sing us the answer:
inhaling inhaling exhaling exhaling
deep in wait deep out wait
dance, blackspots, dance!
-
and I know that the nicotine's bad for me
bad for me
but the flicker flicker is nice
in the moonlight
the moonlight
we're awake just past singing
we're happy and singing
we're two and we're one and
we're everything birdlike
and our long runon sentences run on and on
and on until morning
till morning
till morning