He smoked only occasionally
On still evenings when he could
Hear the nearby river murmur
And swell. Who knows
How fast or deep.
Handrolled, inexpertly,
Always a little lumpy.
His earliest memories were of
His grandfather rolling cigarettes
On a handmade wooden table.
Settle the shag on the paper,
Like making a tiny bed.
The boy watched as if beholding
Some lost tribal ritual.
Lick the little envelope and
Lay it aside.
Neat as a sealed scroll.
In the dusky porch light
He'd sit on his grandfather's knee
As he smoked and wove
Stories no one could now remember.
The boy's mother and sister
Listening along.
As he smoked he was aware
Of the cancer that had turned
The old man gaunt and grey
Before the end.
The smoke stretched into the
Darkness as he exhaled,
Like an isthmus of fog.
He didn't believe he'd meet
The old man again one day.
There was only the draw and exhale.
Scent of the beginning and the end.
And the smoke moving in
Long curves.
Both balletic and torpid.
And both present and absent.
But always tending toward absence.
It's all done with mirrors 