i've been dragging myself from
               weekend to weekend,
            wrapped in blankets,
                  struggling violently to stay

                  upright on black ice,
        desperately staring forward,
           eyes squinting,
               trying to catch a glimpse of
             green beyond the gray.



                       now, grass is finally
                     showing on lawns, and
                        flowers are starting to
                             grow,

                 but the spring air carries
               subtle threats of winter,

                         as though it weren't april,
                         but november--

      as though instead of
            turning and welcoming the heat
         on my face, i should be bracing
          for lack of sunlight.


         twelve months ago, i wrote an exhalation after
         a long-held breath,
               and it was true

                   at the time


                      (i think);

            six months ago,
               looking for an hour in the open casket
             of the summertime,
                      i realized that i

                    completely forgot
                    to inhale again

                          and i wanted so much to
                        have something of substance pumping
                                     in and out of my lungs
                               that cigarettes became
                                more than a metaphor.





                                           you know, i didn't realize
                                           how much i was relying
                                           on the change of seasons
                                           to fix me

                                           until it didn't.