Fall 2009
Table of Contents - Vol. V, No. 3
Thane Zander
A silver cap, a flint,
the mechanism
for flame to dance,
your orange the pits of hell,
your yellow
the voice of longing.
You are but a simple thing,
a shape friendly to touch
a smooth fit for the palm
that desires none other
than to set you free.
With flicks and sparks
you aim for stardom,
the cigarette coughs into being
your life, suddenly extinguished
as your breath settles
into a gaseous blue canister.
Into a netherworld
of pressed cotton, lint
the warmth shared,
you await the next deciding moment
when kindling is sought,
the smell of your passing,
your after affects,
as lungs claw for breath,
a hand deftly turning you---
over and over.
© Thane Zander