A Heavy Breath

June breathes its dry heat into your mouth.
You are filled with the lungs of summer;
and to your lips you press April nicotine,
wondering where March is now.

The nightstand has a penny’s worth of dust.
Your worn patchwork legs stumble back to May.
The blood of February lingers under finger beds;
you wash them with secondhand water.

The belly of your indulgence heaves
up the worst of this year’s regression.
January has starved you to emaciation,
yet your throat still pumps up smoke.

July will draw you in with menthol bait.
At six months short of your morality
you render a cigarette bullet to the sternum;
hoping August's breath will be fresher.