When you look into smoke

as it gathers in front of a lamp,

it looks like any other breath.

Both are carried up by the wind.

They end up somewhere in clouds.

An airplane passes by. A child

stares out the window,

a few inches of acrylic, and

falls asleep. For a moment

his hair brushes the smoke

or breath that once came

from your lips, which are

raspberry in the city light.