Blown Out

Smoke is still smoke, whether it wanders 

up, in singeing spirals, from the tip of a lit

cigarette

sitting on cold stone, or wet log

tucked away in the woods,

half mile from your home.

It’s the same, spewing from parted lips and

constricted lungs as it is

on soft cushion, in your childhood home 

sinking in a dome of sweet singing,

a familiar symphony, and the waft of warm 

vanilla cake by birthday-candle light,

in sugary swirls, wick dipped in frosting, and licked clean,

kissing the nib of your nose.

Smoke is still smoke, whether it’s rattled off

that melting house in 

plundering plumes,

like week-ripe autumn leaves

smashing down on unspoiled winter snow.

Towns of lungs still turn to rubber,

surrounded in syrupy black smog

and smothered in thick, white, extinguishing foam. 

Whether it was open flame, or lit candle—

lighter fluid, or struck match—

it went up the same, 

and the same it came down

in ashes,

collapsing, concave,

and the scattering perfume of childhood,

nipping the hairs of your nose.