fishing it out of the box, fingers less sure
than they might otherwise be,
the lighter takes several tries to flame.
the first drag, hard and long,
so you can feel your lungs burn,
so the distemperance can dissipate.
the cawing, crowing success
of brown crawling inside your veins:
smelling of age and seashores,
dark like timber and resin.
midway through the taste is less forest
and more smoke, old carbon,
burning and elemental and acrid;
as the fire creeps toward the filter,
cancer seems more a likelihood
than death by lack ever seemed.
even still, the need is basic and bloodlust,
associated with sidewalks and summer
or windowsills and snow or
driving, walking, drinking, fucking.
the illness floats, an oily residue,
on the surface of my tongue.