Tuesday, January 3, 2012


He walked from the living room to the kitchen,
took me and a trail of cigar smoke,
past the record player,
the gap in the couches –

For in singing ‘Moon Shadow’ I had them set wide apart –
and the recliner where I lit my pyjamas
playing with his lighter,
pre-fire safety standards for pyjamas.

I extinguished myself –
you do it quickly,
panic with your hands,
aware of the closeness.

And think:
long death or quick death?
In the kitchen he draws on a sugar cube,
and the cigar darkens.

I inhaled the smoke,
we sat silently across from one another.
We took the boat,
covered the deck with fish.

There were autumn berries in the smoke,
as there was blood on the deck.