Breath bellows
hot with sparks-
glow, spin and vanish.

I’m forced out-
the fumes in my room are unbearable.
Airing out my mouth-
running fingers through greasy hair.

Have you ever considered, how you are (We’re spun nowhere)
the survivor of your thoughts? (speaking thoughtlessly)
Your ethics and lusts, the perception of those you used to trust. (thinking needlessly)
repressed regrets, and even those buried, unmarked, forgotten (needing frivolously)
persist in some way. (spun and nowhere, we’re)
You remain their heir.

My breath bellows,
and its glow
is vehement and vicious.

I double-tap my headphones and the music pauses.
A thicket
divides Chicago's sidewalk from Chicago's Nature Museum,
and behind the dead Winter branches,
I see a lone kid,
dangling his feet at the end of the dock of a frozen pond.

Beside him sits his reassurance,
and behind them, I recognize every face down the line,
a muted line of unrequited reinactments,
a condemning crowd of uninvited ghosts.

Our hands are in our pockets, our ears are in our phones,
white noise insulated ashen sky. Even
as people on the streets pass behind me, none
seem to notice the eruption. I've already
made my way through the brush, leapt
down the incline and onto the frozen shore.

My breath roars,
what am I
but what I am. We can't help but
accept what we are. My fingers sink
into his throat, his eyes wide
his back against the ice.