Cigarette smoke dwells

By Jan Philippe V. Carpio

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Cigarette smoke dwells
in the papers from
last night´s poetry
reading, in the bar where
percussion and strings
thud, thump, and twang
to the wisp of every
word we blow through
alcohol lips,
hanging, in the dim air,
before shifting
like a mood.



I press my nose
to the paper,
and it escapes
me, if its smell wears
the brands you prefer.
Since your arrival,
different blends
between your lips,
sticks protruding
thin, shades against
the snow-capped plateau
that is your face,
smiles turning,
hints of sunlight.



Sometimes the smoke
staggers in the roll
of its paper prison,
like the words on
the page in my hand,
smoldering for release
that respiration brings,
but incineration grants.



Your eyes open
into the ceiling
over the room
of a new country,
where your hand reaches
for the bell to ring
the smoke awake.
But you find yourself
having to rediscover
fire each time you speak,
and how steadily
can your breath feed
the embers, tears
of branches you gather
from their impact
on forest floors
you have never
set foot before.



Not at all the smoke dissipates.
some remain in the lungs
to fester, some cling
to things like papers
from that evening
in the bar, clinging
for a nose to pass
over and recall,
while others coat
the inside of nostrils,
and that is, the smoke
of you, rising past
the edge of your outline,
a thin gray line
taking one more flight.