Smoke and trains

not one thing

like a smoke in open pitch darkness

and a silence

that lets you hear the cigarette

crippling and smouldering

slowly, so slowly

there's a dizziness

in the stinking smoke

there's a death and a stormy beauty

that you never want to end

when your eyes droop

and your voice drops down

to an unconscious, deep and dry whisper to sit in the hit, and dark, and love the episodic trains rattling the tracks filled with unknown silhouettes passing by seldom horns from the far passing trucks distant from the business and noises

of the flyover, followed by,

a phantom path

the grasses nearby ruffle

with the movements of

illusionistic twilight, stray dogs

and in worthy company

this moment now leaves me wordless