a fleeting season

my mouth tastes of cigarettes,
and so should yours after all
but it doesn't. It tastes
like a color, like a warm
sound, like a feeling,
like water, clear
fleeting

here for a season,
- less than that -
then drought

it feels like life
should be one long season of rains, by now
but up in the clouds, our rain dance has fallen
on agnostic ears, and we have to husband
what we've collected in buckets, in
troughs and tin cans, in
our hearts,

against this doubt
to get us through

I know
we shouldn't be smoking, but then
neither should anyone else

there's plenty of other things, as well
that nobody else should do