Places I’ve had religious experiences while smoking regular cigarettes.
The alley.
In the hollow of the night—
everywhere brick and shadow,
brick and shadow.
I inhale from
a cancer stick,
smoke billowing,
moving to the sky—
a thin prayer upward.
It’s all gone now.
But the scent lingers in my clothes.
I can’t get rid of it.
Flame again,
brief—
ash falls on concrete.
Silence now.
A cold truth:
here, now, there is nothing.
Not a thing,
but also everything
all at once.
Time is slow,
but it’s a thief.
Photo credit: James McCarthy
