The Lung

The Lung

Ray Succre

Already my breaths are crushed by cold nights,
and my arms are but ungreen wheat strands.

In the morning, I cough gushes to a cloth,
and burn it with naphtha.

Why last night I dreamt of five cigarettes
is how I know my season is near end.
They are the mornings of hunger and panic.
They are bedded with my body
racking over to red strains.

I have not known a female more than
grapes or soap, my britches are dirt-covered,
I breathe dirt as well.
Alone, I lock my home at night, but wonder why;
I'd speak even to thieves.

Locked in, I sleep and wake coughing
from my very feet, feeling the blood squeeze tight.

The emphasis seems a scant danger,
but hard exhalation, but my veins are brought
forward as if answers in my skin,
and I burn the rag, I breathe the fumes.