Your fingers ache from the cold, from looming in the shadows
cast by an invisible moon tucked behind the clouds.
Your throat burns with memories and visions
embodied by the fiery wand between
your teeth.

Women sway to an inaudible music,
and swirls of smoke become pools
where the fish jump
without fear of the fisherman.

Inhaling the portraits of lonely widows
and rotted men who have loved only bottles.
Perhaps they will find their peace
in those shriveling lungs.

With a cleansing exhale into the vacant darknss,
jubilant creatures frolic in mists of grey and white,
twirling round your spinning head,
mouths agape in mid-song
and hooves tapping together
to the same melody as the maidens.

You hear no music, only the groan of an old house to your back
where you have come from seeking refuge in the hospitality
of your sweet nicotine lips.
Waving away these spirits of smoke
vanishing behind those sullen walls,
leaving only a still-burning stub
smoldering lonesome

in ******
snow.