Smoke day

 Each smoke trail says

the day was here,

it was alive and it burnt.

There’s this visual thing,

what you like to call a memory.

All tangent.

Rock digs into the back of my ankle.

One day the books will close

and show their ideas

in an explicit way.

Water over paper

melts the paper.

Rocks scrape it up into filaments

of ideas—good grief is the expression—

grief as the good gasp,

last eyes open.