Smoked like robes (Carol Ciavonne)

A man burns a letter
supposing greater clarity
in perceiving more light.
The aether leaves its prison noisily;
words disappear but are not gone,
insinuate themselves
into pores and interstices of the body,
the palliative always emigrant.

Who resists them receives them
smoked like robes by incense.

—Carol Ciavonne
—from Azimuth

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