To stay warm, I burn
living and fossil wood,
dry leaves and sticks of dung
I smoke my lungs to black lace
For eons cool Earth
has tried to chill me out
as I sit at the firepit
in my charcoal clothes
If I asked, she’d let me
be the wheel in her water,
the panel in her sunshine,
the turbine in her wind
But a woman who doesn’t smoke
is missing something, and I
have quite a thing
for fire
From lemon oil
Jackson 