• As permanent as smoke upon
    The not-wind of still, winter air;
    As fleeting, as impossible to hold:
    This is the substance of my hope.

    Receding, like daylight at dusk,
    Or half-remembered scents
    Of musk on cast-off clothing
    From a fading dream of lust...
    A withering bloom, laid on the grave
    Of all my good intentions.

    As if my last breath was to be
    My last breath:
    Each further gasp of powdered glass,
    Another broken promise;
    Ongoing compromises with
    The processes of death.

    Before a chill hearth
    My heart insists
    On sifting cold coals, as though
    My wishing it could make it so
    And kindle new fire
    From these ashes...
    Or find an ember,
    Smoking still,
    Behind your languid lashes.