Straw papers in the
ashtray, and touch a lit cigarette tip
ever so gently to a middle. Starts as a neat
circle, like tiny scaled volcano
lava, glowing from
a center and spreading out. I can't take my eyes off
the thin of burning line as it dances
away and along and leaves
a trail of dust
to blow away. Fascinating.
It is not what is said but how it sounds, it is
not the words but how they are sung. It is
a dark place, easy, and I am remembering
to listen without thinking. It is a dark place, easy,
and there is no urgency in anything, not even
in the little flickering line of light moving
up the paper.
It is marvels like this that we discover, again
and again. The easiness. We know that fire is
something of danger, but a slowly burning paper
is something we must look at till our eyes tear from not blinking, something to focus on, spreading slowly not as fire but already as ash; smouldering steadily along, sure and sliver like, orange.
Easy
dancing
dying