We are never addicted to bad things
like old bananas. Or thumbtacks. Or worms.
Well, maybe worms. But usually we burn
plants that smoke that fills us makes us feel
good, or lick sugar from lips lipping
good, or rub skin that sings a sin so
good. Once is enough
for a hook but it doesn’t matter how many
hard days you give me, I know there’s no
fresh water here: I’ve turned every single
soft thing to stone.