Incense

The blue head pops
and wood browns
as a flame begins to hop

from the match down
the soft grey stick
of incense. Sound

dies as heat licks
at the scented column,
sputters, is sick,

and expires. The dumb
red glow breathes
a long line of fumes:

translucent grey wreathes
snake and coil
with forms meant to tease

my eyes. The smoke toils
through my nose,
bearing the scent of the oil

worn in your clothes,
worn between the veins
in your wrist. It flows,

an intruder, into my brain
and unearths the body, our life
together, so carefully forgotten

when I left you asleep that night.

A. Popp

.