A Mile In Smog And A Mile In Fresh Air

A mile in smog and a mile in fresh air
are not the same mile.
the red tree stretches toward
the river as you reach your arms
over my sleeping body.

I’m dreaming of bears scaling cityscapes
and my old house on fire.

I am wax paper beneath your breath.

The morning foods in
and cuts me in two.

One half goes in your pocket
and the other into the air.

This happens every day and somehow there is
always more of me.