Backyard

it may be the other side that vanishes first. standing in the back yard smoking a cigerrette. a car passes by first the engine then the lights. the faint hum of deisel and carbon are left. so i exhale once more. maybe I have a handful of memories. maybe the clouds are passing overhead. i remember all those early fall days the leaves having brought themselves down to their knees. what comes next the hip or thigh, possibly the wrist? delicate the touch and soft the shiver of winters joints. that leaky fossil that sheds half its sinews continually passing above. such a beautiful arched ceiling, with heavy rain soaked lungs. now i am as a cistern in carthage kept in remembrance by very cold ancient stones overhead. i cannot speak by i may listen. it is the vapor as i exhale that dissapears last.