The Smoker in the Yard

but for a mouthful
biting the air—but
better a bowlful blowing

like the fallen rain,
in its collecting, sliding
down like blood the grass blades and coursing
as through veins
the weary cracks of stone

but for the secret shaft
that spirals not, but kisses—sifts
upward through pressures in the layering light

but for the smell—
the rank and fire of hell—or
for the dreamed companion
who holds repressions in his hand

but for the smoker in the yard
I would have shut
myself into the black warmed room
but better stopped to breathe with him
who lingers in the might bright light.