Smoke

There is a dancing light,

no more than a streetlamp two

hundred yards away, its fine

filament shattered by heaviness

of wet air, which jackets

seeing like a concept laid

upon the purity of fact.

I sit at the typewriter,

cigarette between my lips,

staring at smoke, then at words,

not knowing the difference.

Of course I do know if I ask,

“What do I believe?” Funny,

no one else seems to know.

I mean, we say we do,

but that is only by decision.

We jump to conclusions,

jump as high as light

is long and fast, but without

arrival. Things simply stop.

There is nothing quite as real

as smoke. It smells and has

a taste. It comes between

us and what we know. Smoke

is very welcome. Like light,

born of fire, it stings

and makes us close our eyes.