Seasmoke

Birch cinders

Black as youth

Lightning salt, shred rope on pier

Gulls, pikes, mackerels, eels

Old salmon in the white stream

Painted with something familiar

I think of only you as I watch them.

Why must I think of you?

My weary croon is heavy and cracked

Like the skin of an arid old crone

Her beauty and pagan charm

and face mangled by shrike

All that you and I see

are needles for teeth

You are the steward 

of this faithful red lamp

Wick in hand you sweep

The wax that has spilt over

from the old flame

Which, crackling as it burns

sets alight the shed skin and earth

Fallen softly to the ground 

from the deed

As I watch

It all settles quiet 

on the oily wood.

O clean, wistful, pious incense—

How wise a fool, to walk across you with one foot

For now you have covered us both

Naked young souls

All sooty and bare

Reluctantly I

Drive my blackened palms

and angry battle standards

Through your heart

And out come the ripened old voice

Of chimney smoke

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