Song of Smoke
Song of Smoke
By Kevin Young
To watch you walk
cross the room in your black
corduroys is to see
civilization start—
the wish-
whish-whisk
of your strut is flint
striking rock—the spark
of a length of cord
rubbed till
smoke starts—you stir
me like coal
and for days smoulder.
I am no more
a Boy Scout and, besides,
could never
put you out—you
keep me on
all day like an iron, out
of habit—
you threaten, brick-
house, to burn
all this down. You leave me
only a chimney.
Been a while since i read a good love poem (or beauty poem). I appreciated the couplets, the space, the beauty of the line here, the succinct thoughts pitter pattering like a slow afternoon rain. Comparing a woman’s beauty to the start of civilization, to the spark of fire…so correct, seems hyperbolic but beauty is that crucial to life. And we don’t even have to get into the whole beauty/truth; truth/beauty thing. lol. It’s intoxicating. Love the flow of the poem too. Thanks for sharing!