Woodsmoke is a blanket

Unlike the silent sheet
of morning mist
or the shroud of fog
leading evening into night
woodsmoke is a blanket
spreading like a story
raconteured by a fire's crackle - twigs telling
how tree droppings were brought home
bought free by poverty
to smoke and slowly cook up
small helpings on big plates
for cavernous little mouths
gobbling morsels
seasoned with lots of smoke.

Before the matchstick

Before the matchstick
turns darker than its head
flaming golden, it
gives your face
a third eye
red, oxygen sucking red
yours to suck in
a lungful of smoke
before the matchstick
warps into death.

Clouded smoke

No white boats
swimming in blue
not a white spread
with blue tears showing through
the skies are
smoke, smoke, smoky
grays unbraiding out
tendrils of black,
clouds smoking cloudily.
Can I reach up
and suck in
a lungful of
this smoking wetness?