every second I think

this is the oldest I have ever been

this is the youngest I will ever be again

this second is gone                      this one too

tell me I cannot drink the air;

yet the smoke on the horizon curls like a finger,

inviting me to taste February in the wind

and know time is running out

as the days turn to fire for retribution

and the nights turn to ice for revenge,

i watch the smoke curl over the mountains

grayish-pink sunsets smelling of apples and your grandfather's attic