I’ll quit smoking
as soon as I
get lung cancer.
The young don’t smoke
anymore, they join gyms.
I can’t help thinking
they’ve misunderstood
something. The body’s 
a temple? The mind 
is a tempest. Somewhere 
along the line
the alternating stresses fall.
And if I quit smoking
how would I signal you?
The smoke alarm
pings me awake
to tell me it’s dying. 
OK! I will get up
to address again
the not-fire and maybe
all creation. I mean,
as long as I’m up.

Down the small
rain is the way
of things, my umbrella’s
a dead spider,
so I pop
into the bodega and buy
one for $4
which turns out
to be impossible
to close once opened
which I mention
to the bodega guy
next time I pop in
who says yeah
that’s why they’re so cheap.
So I walk through
the rain’s “pockmarked
face” to the apartment 
where David Attenborough 
emotionally manipulates
me re snow-leopard cub.
Everyone these days 
feels like Werner Herzog 
listening to