Made from Smoke

Turn away from its grimy breath.
Let it blow around you like hair.
You can always push it away or tuck it
behind your ear, the plumes hiding you,
holding you
apart from the plastic, the falsehoods,
the impersonators.

You've escaped before: the holes
in your space
are still where you left them,
part of your armature
chalked to the texture of ground-up pills.
Tears of second chances clear your vision
so start again. Gather up the familiar,
idealize it until it appears beside you.

Its distraction is only temporary.
Pay no attention that its head turns
on a neck arched
with your own longing.

Stop. This is the moment
before all the positioning begins,
the grand negotiations,
the heat that melts before it can singe.

Understand that it's never the thing
you bargained for. All faults are fatal.
Pick the ones you can live with
and glory in your own erasure.

You are an image made from smoke.
On this canvas, you're the man.