untitled. Stale cigarette smoke on baby breath.I am Hemmingway,earnest with every written word.Mere exclamationwith no explanation.Words are in the way of voices,we're full of shit.But, who notices?In front of crowdsare moving mouths.On silver platters it's eaten upby blank-eyed ghoulsdressed justlikeyou.At dusk, we fade away.A baby's cry.Smoke into the sky.Annabelle McMillan, 12 April 2007