Monument to a Poet


The way you hold that clove cigarette
as though urging the smoke to heaven
in spiritual spirals, cancerous ghosts,
inspires a vision in me as beautiful
as the final coil of a dead fire.

I imagine that clove cigarette
in the mouth of your corpse,
sitting quietly as it dutifully burns
like a soul defying the body's death.

Are you finally at peace? Are those sad eyes
now poised as though above a smile?
Are you now a monument to your final victory
or am I just in an empty room, thinking 
I see you when I've never seen you,
only the smoke of what you've burned?


3/3/01