Poetry
FEATURES IN SMOKE
Smoke like rivers from your pursed lips
Which shape the misty smiles your face is without,
A disinterested kiss, favouring your right side.
Those rivers are the racing waters
Between motionless mountains:
Your locomotive mind behind half-closed eyelids.
Reclined, it’s not something you care to think about.
The day will pass. The smoke will always find
Its way in, to flow its way back out again.
Every ashen hill under a full, munched-out moon
Has the colour of your face, your chest,
Only without the warmth of distant suns
Or the glow of lost comets. No ice, no frost,
Just the fairest of features in smoke,
And a heart that would strengthen, but for that cloak.