Smoke

God, it is good to wake
     in the middle of the night
          and smoke a cigarette
with You,
     while outside, the buildings sleep
          in geometric clumps,
the factories rest – replenishing
     themselves, not so unlike
          the rosebushes or
eucalyptus groves,
     gathering power
          for one more thrust tomorrow.
For now, 
     the streetlights blossom
          above the boulevard,
a lone truck on the darkened bridge
     transports its spark across the gap,
          the way your fingertip
ignited Michaelangelo to think,
     long ago,
          that You were there.
One does so much
     building up, so much feverish
          acquiring,
but really, it is all aimed
     at a condition of exhausted
          simplicity, isn't it?
We don't love things.


So this hour of the night
     is precious,
          when the curtains swell like lungs
and the world is full of bodies
     falling from the precipice
          of sleep.
For seven hours,
     maybe eight, they don't
          remember how to suffer
or how to run from it.
     They are like the stars,
          or potted plants, or salty oceanic waves.
And do You like this brand of cigarette?
     And are You comfortable?
          It is so quiet now,
The streetlights shine.
     And I have noticed
          how the strands of smoke,
even in no hint of wind,
     still decorate the air
          in cursive braided loops and swirls.
No, it is not a signature.
     But it is beautiful,
          and it is inexplicable,
and it is good.
                                 
                               - Tony Hoagland