That Smoke! Poem by Eric Cockrell

you smell like skin,
rain damp fresh plowed earth.
the ball in the glove,
the hammer strikes the nail.

and i know about fire,
love cries and hot wetness.
the frenzied clutch of fingers,
the gasp and the tremor.

the old wood stove,
in the corner radiates,
you feed it logs,
split by time's axe.

till drunk with sleep,
both dreamless and forgotten.
you turn your back
to a final wisp of smoke...

i am that smoke!