Body
My father, once, said I should start smoking
in the same pernicious, smiling breath
that he advised me to work in the city
for the few years of my youth I had left.
Where the endless March tides would carry me,
With the slow wavelength of nicotine
That sea of camphor would embrace me,
and gently stroke my memory clean.
But remember just one thing, my son
In the whiplash of your final December,
When your swollen arteries are clogged,
When your spite is almost dead, remember;
That our eyes, my brother,
and our minds are merely other
Weapons of imperfection
with which to punish one another.
