A cosmic wind scattered
the light-seeds.
They fell into the lake
and we lost them.
Except for a few that I saw
in your palm.
You lit cigarettes
and told me
you needed
something unholy
to keep you down here
on this rock next to me.
But I’d given up the habit
of standing on the ground
so I took from you instead
stalks of white light to chew.
They were juicy and fat
from the holding
and we sat
in the cold while I sucked
them to nothing.
“It won’t be long,”
you told me
“before the streetlights
eat them all.”