Smoking as an unexampled
feat of human ingenuity – or as an answer to
the unforeseen conundrum
of the craving to inhale
a little bit of hell – well,
all of that is interesting enough
in the abstract – but does no
justice to the power of the lack
we felt upon discovering
a lit hand-rolled lipstick-
enraptured cigarette left on
an orange plate inside
the soft cerulean boundless blue
of dream we had last night –
whose plumes exhumed
the fumes of vaguely
recognizable acquaintances
we think we might have
smoked with when we smoked
back in the lightly unconsidered
sweet extremities of everybody’s
brightly burning youth.
Strange, back then, when
smoking felt like truth.
.
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