Trick Candles

          Everything was shifting,
          like an octagon on wheels…


The butt is where
my head is at,
rummaging for sleep
in that soft
caramel foam,
that sticky cantina
of brown tar
and pale-ale haze.

Sleep, sleep,
poor head, (I say,)
The cigarette
burned out long ago, No—

The nicotine still
waves its orange baton,
the smoke still rises,
its rings yet round,
resting like haloes
on the hurt of night.