cheroot

It is a simple spell—

fire to smoke, smoke to breath

breath to blood, blood to flesh—

so the flame is kept

so the branch is burning.

It is a common thread—

the wrong word is used or

the word is used wrong

it goes on and on so long

the word becomes right.

Comes a time the star is

your compass, your direction 

the sacred oath of sunset.

Comes a time the stone

no longer can bear the press

your blessing carries in your hands,

your fingers so craved and kissed.

A match struck becomes a light,

the light an anchor in

the ocean of all this night.

Washed away by all this water

swept away by wave and sea, 

no skiff, no ship, no lifesaver 

tossed upon the violence of these words

the metaphor always wanting more

everything another thing, the things 

in between, magic and machine

my heart, my lips, the fire

not the name as no thing is

the name save for the saying.

So I dream you like I dream

the cigar I do not have, my wish

another direction, this poem

named near enough, the invocation 

a voice in the dark in black and white.

The body keeps no secrets,

words loosed into the wind at night.

The hurricane becomes the beating of

a butterfly’s wings, the butterfly the poet,

the poet the dream, the dream your name.