Go thou my incense upward from this hearth,
And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame.
– Henry David Thoreau; Smoke
the golden halo of drifting smoke
became an estival veil
as he carried on the day’s errands
stacks of mortar warmed
their limited-edition Jack Frost slippers by
the dying breaths of ingot
Now they sat – the Masters and the Lords.
Drinks did rounds and toasts were made
To The World and its New Gods.
And like spirals of smoke I shall rise
Only to fade in the vast expanse that greets me
The doomed recesses of the mind
What is tied across?
Answers may flood and then sink
like an evening light.