Tuesday, February 3, 2015

Cold air bites at my face.

The silence of falling snow.

Crosshatched buckram on cardboard against my hands.

Paper between my thumb and forefinger.

Flecks of tar and oil form at the end—at the ember.

Charred tobacco.

Unmelted ice clinking in the glass.

Ethanol burns my cracking lips.

Fibrous rustling as I turn the page.

The ember flares.

Warm ash on my jacket.

Tar and oil and ink on paper.

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