A poem by SOPHIE NEVRKLA.
In the embryonic early hours,
we perch on my windowsill,
share a loose cigarette
and watch buses drive past.
Flame strokes paper;
we are thin paper
people, clutching
spilled cups of tea.
Your smoke is stretched taut.
It travels with such purpose –
a perfect
O.
Your smile dissolves it
as you laugh, cat-mouth
open wide, head tossed back
like a lucky coin.
You watch buses and I watch you,
man in profile, head half-turned,
umbilical smoke rolling out of that
loose piece of paper and tobacco.
Artwork: Egon Shiele – Four Trees
