Lungs over Time

I tell myself about the night

because I cannot compromise the morning.

My clocks will not bend for me

Any direction I push.

I condition the air

so it does not feel like August.

I have somehow missed the summer

between the cold glass

and the chain-smoking clouds

Pressing themselves against

My twenty-five stories.

I wonder if it can bear my voice.

Ao, how can one begin a lamentation

With all the finicky regret of words.

My brother, you and I whom have mourned time together

cannot share the melancholy we comprise.

I do not know how to explain

the things that have begun

passing through my lungs.