The morning whiles away a lazy wind
& wicks the sweat from skein of last night’s dream.
Invisible, it spins a dervish din
that sets a bit of fallen ash to seem
to dance within a web—and echo when
the things I hoped gave way to dawn’s harsh gleam.

There is no breeze as dark descends to night;
the spider has devoured what remained.
& cast aside, or swallowed, that svelte wight
of nicotine & paper, wanton stain,
has drifted to another world, from sight,
or risen to the pulse of dreamer’s vein. 

I light the tip & birth a wayward twin
to introduce the two somewhere within.