How the corners of the page curl in flame
how the smoke rotates every atom of his vision on its axes
like an ignited wire
even his aperture loses its destination
and the colors disintegrate like tar
no longer sought after.
All that matters
is trying to locate the shades, the gradients, the outline,
of what used to be his story
wafting like debris
sticking to random homes.
At one recent point the words he spoke
were scattered over the pages of those early chapters
like cigarette ashes
smoke contains poetry,
but the flame is a pure obsidian.
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