Even though the nights have folded over

Transparent as projector paper

Certain smells procure the gist of it

I have been smoking for four

hundred thousand years now

My lungs are sticky

garnished in black resin goop

Last night you

asked for some

I must have obliged,

But in the morning I was

blameless

The hole of you

buried deep between my breasts

or, possibly a field

Some opium den circa 1710

Composing a letter on the pipe

It quelled the sound of

Cannons blasting ROSES

RINGING bright in the distance