I can't be fagged any more. My ashen
face is in this saucer, stubbling
the china, my packet's daily ration
exhausted. The fumes are troubling.
Here are the final embers, glowing
like a shortish fuse. They try to filter
the bad news. Now the smoke is flowing
out of my lungs, out of kilter
with my breath. It is running ragged
rings round my head: whenever I puff,
it sucks. It's soothing, since I'm haggard
extracting cancers. This stuff
kills? No? There's a war in my chest,
a hint of cough, bringing spit up.
The first drag of the dawn: it's best
to hawk. Time that I lit up.
