One daily task,
which he meets admirably,
is to populate the world.
He puffs his pipe
to summon up and breed
into and through its swirled
grey tendril-fumes
another bloom of progeny –
another panoply unfurled
into the void –
which doesn’t last. But part
of it will soon have squirreled
back to the heart
of things and feed the blast
inside his pipe bowl: cloak
blank space again
to stoke, evoke in floating ash
another Word Made Smoke.
.
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