By Emilea Huff

You have an obsession
with the darkest street corner.

A full-speed tire, you go to bridges
where faith took its last leap.

You read obituaries of people
you have never heard of just to
know them in their last breath.

A breath of dry air,
a corner or crease,

a plateau on a mountain of
wonderings.

You love to hear about the newest
drug, but you only drink water
and smoke city street exhaust.

You have an obsession with death,
but you never want to die.