OverTheRainbow

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

and here i thought we were all going to die someday;

incorrect;

our corpses (sacks of what used to be our livelihood, exhales of what used to be our lives) will 

the world is colder than before

north winds exhaling dragon breath across the valley and

my doorstep where i wait for the bus (bumblebee against concrete),

rubbing my hands together and

tiny rectangular black hole

sucking us all in

                                         faster

1

our friendship needs no labels; the kind of thing where

we ride back from a college basketball game together

on a bus too bright for March and, 

voice raspy from shouting,