In the hour from four to five p. m. in winter,
the pines stand up in snow like asparagus stalks
in a bin of crushed ice, although asparagus season,
season of renewal, is months away.
As the sun goes down, the trunks soak up the color
of lavender ashes, until only the feathered tops
burn a rusty green.
I light a cigarette, its smoke
a silken leash in the hand of my stray lover,
who taught me to inhale poison. The match falls
into a drift with a little gasp.
