An erstwhile stoma

for only the most devoted
of smokers set
counting he-loves-me-not bones
in the weeping-wall girdles of
hunch-hoarded, hand-drawn china—
What’s the shape of your sadness,
what soft, jig-sawed hole 
can you cram it through,
in or out? In
etching this
into the back
of a soft-pack,
glutted with 
black-lipped butts, I
avert my eyes hunched
back in that cracked concentration,
that soap bubble bokeh focus smudging
the sun to a grumbling ink blot, far
and away from what lithe, smiling,
crystalline sky that a cool June 
day is confronted with, seeking
in scratchy black matchsticks
all the resolve and grace
all these trees are traced with—