the cigarette your hands work as if on stage a sudden graft of someone else’s elegance elbows relaxed and eyebrows arched within the practiced context of props and their finely scripted securities patterns change, of speech and gesture as eyes squint with thought through curling smoke someone else’s eyes as the deftly lit cigarette fills your mouth someone else’s mouth cool words vent with the mouth’s exhaust no longer the oracle that sang to me like a kiss cool words and heated smoke screening your face, someone’s face, and i wonder how many people there are inside you burning like a sparkler flashing on the fourth of july the end of your smoldering weapon traces the space, the growing space that encircles you smoke defining in the busy night air the conversation’s end looking offstage as if for a prompt you try to say what is already in one eye and take a drag, tasting the sound, testing your new character suddenly centered as dirty white breaches the distance between then finally the words, arrogant as a thrower’s knives “I can’t handle this yet, you know?” you say, someone says, i hear “Not yet. Not now.” and it all seems so reasonable as you nod, agreeing with yourself and each promise made is lanced like a balloon and each sweet vow is swallowed like spit and the silhouette that was me is outlined by ten flaming knives, one for each finger severed someone else’s fingers as the scrolls of our moments poems all (i had believed) are rolled and stuffed and turned to ash then casually flicked into the oncoming traffic in the time it takes for another match to flare