Purple Smoke

Looking at the stranger who stares back
at you in the mirror, how do you do?
She asks, and you tell her that you've lost
your lunch. You’re wearing a white coat.
The wind bellows and tugs at it.
It melts away. You walk through the warm
woods with metallic paint smudged under
your eyes; the trees lean in and inquire
How do you do? You shrug your imperial
shoulders, and you get an A+ on your
report card. A raven swoops down to
whisper in your ear, he tears off half
of your left ear, so you thank him,
and you collect a cup of blood that drips
down from your ear. You howl
with the wolves, and they lick clean
your wounds, you apologize to the leaves
that crumble to dust as you pass
and your breath turns the air
into purple smoke. Poison. Listen
-ing to the roar of rapids where
fearless fish are amidst the clouds,
flying. They are untameable and they are
free. Their mouths open and close to catch
raindrops and they flick their tails
to the melody of the wind. You strain
to join in, to be a part of it all.
You want to join in with their song.
They tell you to leave, they tell you
that your lungs have already gone.

You’re left with the skeletons of
fire. A mahogany casket
to bury the fog. The ash floats
in front of you, a smoky mirror,
you cough. Your reflection has
turned its’ back on you. Facing
the sky, arms stretched out wide.
A shout. A contradiction.
“I’m fine!”