The Cigarette [2.11.08]

The river is walking with me, walking at my pace.
I am on roiling lava, laughter of cynical leaves.
The day is like nicotine, bad for you.

The trees are metal, a pylon wood. If I sit
Down, I will turn to stone. The holly
Pricks my lips, my neck, my hair. Spots of
Blood on my hunters coat, I march like an arrogant
Soldier through my conquered country.

I saw the deer.
Neck pulled forward, head yanked back, a deliberate
Step in one direction, a wooden toy that a child pulls
Along by a string. It halted, it saw me, it

Broke, and reassembled some little distance off.
The trees, petulant iron child, shook and cried.

The sky hung over me like a serious-faced portrait,
Present and forgotten. The ceiling of a solemn king.
And I knew, with sickening certainty, in my black wellies
And fat black welt of a tongue, that I could
Die in this air.