in the hour of the Dixie cup

ash from a cigarette
suspended in night air,
cigarette tip shards falling
back to earth like
adolescent cherry blossoms

the evenings when you stand on
this wooden deck are all the same
somewhere, dogs are barking

look up:
past the watertower
past streetlamps

the moon hangs heavy and white
through the smoke--
winter's exposed skin

in the thrall of a lighter,
your thoughts burn
the way
loose ends
always

do