In sex, there is talk of The Afterglow. The glistening. The rosy cheeked Mrs Robinson, legged propped, smoking her cigarette.
Smokey tells us a cigarette, left to smolder without intervention, rightly starts a wildfire.
Ripping through the earth, tilling with heat and a death like Shakespeare, it sends out shudders while making the forest ready should seeds be planted.
I do not fear the blaze, The heat is wanted, The new growth embraced. Though I turn my face to the mountains fearing the winds are carrying smoke. The Afterhaze.
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