the way grease and sweat rub
into my white undershirts.
The clothes I bought are threadbare now
and the food I've stolen
no longer fills my stomach.
There is no loss, however,
only comfort in what is used up.
I'd like to hear my voice, once, unrecorded
though my throat is dry now,
here's to a new time of wholeheartedness
found in the vapor of tea, then crushed ice.
And a second laughing toast
to the undeserved health we find
always in our ribcage and lungs,
where we breathe like the rise
and fall of bike pedals, and say again
'bring light in the end'
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