(or why start smoking
in your late thirties)

a confession.


the w h i t e paper
thin, c r i s p
against tips
of fingers
with the t h i n n e s t lines of gold
the burnt umber
to the brown
to the beige
to the white
to the black
black
black
i n h a l e
suddenly i'm alive
i know because i can feel
something
(anything)
then the
e x h a l e
each cycle a moment
suspended in time
the wisps of smoke
transient
unique
and finally
the smell
an
a n c h o r.

not what you expected?