Elegant is the hand’s posture
Holding the chimney cigarette.
With those long painted nails
The smoke rises up to join
That emitted from the circled mouth,
With flesh tone lips, full and soft.
Whirling up to the ceiling with
The emerald eyes sparkling,
To the light in the bulb, reflected,
Refracted from those precious gems,
Touched by listening.
The gold wreathed dust from the window
Falls into the cloudy pallor risen and
Embraces the pale face,
And transforms it again
(In a moment the chin will rise and the
Lips will smile, changing the serenity of
Yesterday)
The gold wreathed dust touches lightly
The hair of falling night.
This lithe form stretched so graciously
On the soft pillows,
Wrapped so in the clouds of white doves,
With long ivory leg bent ever so slightly at
The knees,
Seems to chant with smoke signals,
A siren’s song, so subtle,
Yet I know I’ll spin,
Crashing into the black cliffs of you.
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