Smoke from the fireplace twists down from the stack,
Heavy air out of the east pushes it under the porch roof
Where it smells of apples and cinnamon and whiskey,
The flavored oils of our bodies and their taking,
Ice hard in the cavities of the derelict woods,
The long dark coming in the maganesium shifts of twilight.
This late in the cycle of allure to bliss our urges
Uncommon we think in the season of dormancy,
Our twin fires in the shorter wavelengths,
Our fused paths in dazzling actinic light,
Our flint and steel in the tinder of intellect,
Our ropes and masks against the abysses within us.
copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved
