The cigarette circumference
Is smooth against his face
And the smoke clouds precipitate
To tar teardrops. Pooling as a lake.
Before they all evaporate
Like decayed lungs of late smokers.

Last year
I found my uncle in his cave
Starved, greyed by paper embers,
Cursive scriptures and veils in waves.
As fires fade the way December
Eves into days of a brief fatherly presence.

This year,
I hear my cousin's down there too
With our brothers, under that wreath.
Round is the jaw of the their tomb
And jagged are the snaring teeth.
Like thorns that hook against sinew.

Round. Round and round.
They chant "It's not deep enough."
Down. Down and down.
Doomed to look, loom and drown
In tar teardrops.
The smoke lingers.
It remembers
It looms. The fumes and Hume.
How do I accuse
And can we agree
Which cause is true
Of that father's lesson.
Leading to the question,
To wonder if the father
Teaches to consume or fume
With incense or loss of innocence.
That commandment of his example
Vital as the signs displayed in pulsing waves.

A son of some man appears from the cave.
He turns back and sees that ember
Dwindling within.
Then takes a step toward the light.