Watershed

This fog –
You could cut it with a sharp enough blade.
There's a sword of Damocles where the sun used to quiver –
It is no more than a kitchen knife
In the hand of a stranger.

I'm breathing in the rust
And gulping down the smoke –
One hand held tight against my stomach,
Another at my throat.

Don't move. Don't speak.
Swallow your pride,
Amongst other things,
Because I swallowed all of my tomorrows.

Breathless,
I clamp my eyelids closed,
And maybe the sunrise
Will melt away the fog
That has been my oxygen
Since once upon a September.

The hand swoops down,
The point hits the board;
The blade slices our lives
And all our crossed fingers
And baited breath
Turns to
Dust.