Winter Amnesties

Smoking

61 Smoking I like the cool and heft of it, dull metal on the palm, And the click, the hiss, the spark fuming into flame, Boldface of fire, the rage and sway of it, raw blue at the base And a slope of gold, a touch to the packed tobacco, the tip Turned red as a warning light, blown brighter by the breath, The pull and the pump of it, and the paper’s white Smoothed now to ash as the smoke draws back, drawn down To the black crust of lungs, tar and poisons in the pink, And the blood sorting it out, veins tight and the heart slow, The push and wheeze of it, a sweep of plumes in the air Like a shako of horses dragging a hearse through the late centennium, London, at the end of December, in the dark and fog. ...