The morning breathes its bluewhite smoke
into my eyes—slicks past my apartment

behind the ivy-covered chain link—a surprise 
next to the factory. 
 
Occasionally alarms comb the walls–they watch me grow,
light the cigarette, watch the birds scatter thin
against the sky, their wings almost
mechanical in rhythm.

You learn to forget it: the hum and flicker.
By 40–I promise and promise,

I’ll quit—like saying I’d quit wanting touch.
 
What leaves me doesn’t kills me; perhaps it sees me
off through regret.