wise men sit smoking dying,
on carolina porches while the sky falls
the night goes on schedule:
the stars come and go
the owls sing their sorrowful tales;
alas, the ash stings worn fingertips.
flick away, the butts will never fall into the sea,
that lies so close to home.
and it is wide, a wide, wide view of the ocean;
dimly lit by the moon.
tales of love, tales of leisure,
all fruitful stories caught by wooden roofs,
rich, smoky oak.