Something about the Apple's Priximity to the Tree

Something About the Apple's Proximity to the Tree I Negative Fifteen against a haybale Crunchy with frost I smoke my father's freezer cigarettes In boots and britches too big Gird my spirit with nothing But smoke Pulp my tongue With stale tobacco All filters degraded Alight a light a light alight Out the cherry The butt will sleep under snow Raise no alarms till spring II Lop a log on the fire Embers blush At the couches A little longer 'Another' becomes a tangible increment In the vice of night Scotch. Splinter Breath. Low Tired, but honour-bound Watch the fire die So there's someone with it When it goes III Lockbox Hash Knife Stove Lung Floor Ceiling Future Future Future Future IV I scoop ash from the fireplace Tap it to the apples of my cheeks Wear the past like foundation I hear on Ash Wednesday, Christians don It on their foreheads to represent Repentance, but the only sorry I am Is for myself The mess stays under my nails For days. The past, present Lodged in my crow's feet.