His job as a father
was to fill the flat
with deadly smokes
of his many cigarettes
that turned man’s breath
into pong and stench
so thick as to block
and blot escape,
and yet pages of the books
left over from some other time
in the library along with old,
then incomprehensible photographs
or the light & its divine invite
outside held strangely their own,
though quiet line against the death,
layered, rolled up for that little flash,
brought to and so much longed for
by the man who tried to grow
more hemlock for any local
little Socrates, always hell-
bent on cutting such a deviant
short of any other growth
past a stump, a foil
to his anxious will
that vainly dillydallied
in those lethal clouds
and lusted for the wives
of dead Roman Emperors.
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