Smoke
Smoke. The art of the barbecue. Mixing ash and blood in the back-yard, on a Sunday afternoon.
Smoke. In her soul. Before the ember caught and filled her eyes with fire and forests. Before love.
Smoke. In her passion. Heavier than hot and lighter than love.
Smoke. In her eyes. After love died leaving caves filled with black charcoal.
Smoke. Curling around the fingers of the whores, in the windows of Amsterdam. The cigarette is a clear form of control.
Smoke. In the air. After the car bomb blew up in Beirut. And Oklahoma.
Smoke. Shrouding the mountains. Mirrored in the ocean. Flowing up the river valleys.
Smoke. The acrid smell of gunpowder. Hanging in the air over Chechnya.
Paul Miniato
White Rock,
May 1, 1995
Copyright Paul Miniato 1995-1998.
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Last Updated: 01-Jan-1998