Places I’ve had religious experiences while smoking regular cigarettes.

The alley.

In the hollow of the night—
everywhere brick and shadow,
brick and shadow.

I inhale from
a cancer stick,
smoke billowing,
moving to the sky—
a thin prayer upward.

It’s all gone now.
But the scent lingers in my clothes.
I can’t get rid of it.

Flame again,
brief—
ash falls on concrete.

Silence now.
A cold truth:
here, now, there is nothing.
Not a thing,
but also everything
all at once.

Time is slow,
but it’s a thief.

Photo credit: James McCarthy

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