Chris Cowan


a hollow agape
bowelfire stretches to heat palms
smoke curls through congealing air
permeating hair, a potpourri of kindling
diffuses into incendiary smalltalk,
old friend in older circumstances
laugh at past happenstance
as the flicker of shadows shiver against stone walls-
the crossbreeze seeps through cavecracks
intertwining immediate destiny
with night comraderie,
mutually seeing the world through the proscenium
of our shelter of ashless laughs-
in the mouth of experience
we make the taste last.