marlboro twenty-sevens, or the first warm night of the year

still

  sometimes: i want

a cigarette between my lips and my two feet back on your back porch, but i am not

soft like cement.

i am not smart like the

me of one month ago, since

i am sure of my faults now    but not sure of much else,

, , although more times than    some times i wonder if i look as

flimsy as i feel, since

i don't even know myself when i am alone, since

i know this is just some cinematic sprawl of a face and constant

quivering

vigilance