Quitting
 
Come on, why not? Just one to start the poem.
Burn through the blankness; load your breath with ink.
I do not argue. All I say is no.
 
Why not? Come on, it argues by and by
on nights it’s plain there’s not a thing to do,
when all things done are circular and dim,
or so much starts that nothing gets to end.
At least, it says, a cigarette gets smoked.
I do not argue. All I say is no.
 
Come on, why not? repeat, repeat, repeat,
and, honestly, I cannot disagree:
there is a glamor; yes, a sharpening;
no, there is no punctuation like
the sharp exhale, the point of citric light.
I do not argue. All I say is no.
 
Why not? Come on. And what about your friends?
You’ll be so quiet, lonely, clean, and cold.
You never want to take a drag again?
I do, I do, I do, I do, but no.

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