Smoking on the Porch, Winter Night
I want just this moment of flagrance.
Breath mingling with smoke, smoke with
breath, no difference. I am on fire and
the sweet air snuffs me. I am beeswax
stolen from church. Leave me alone.
It takes eight minutes to smoke each one.
All eight stretch to my fingers’ tips.
I lift up, up to the relief
of oaks and that recumbent moon. Who
is that woman smoking on the porch?
She is a timer for a small death.
She chugs knifey air like whiskey
to compose herself. She solicits
the blues. She gets itchy waiting, wrapped
in smoke and her good black wool.
Okay, I've reached another moment where I have to stop writing. More later.