At the Prana

At the Prana
by Laurel

His cigarette is burning orange, easing
smoke like a dancing gypsy, spinning webs
of lace each time he draws it to or from
his immaculate lips. Yes, he's mastered
fire and the female form beneath him
who will float to and from his open mouth
with ease, without thought, interchangeably.

She becomes a muted poet, sensing
wolves and witchery even in his breath.
Veiled within floating smoke she perceives
a metaphor: her own body inhaled,
exhaled, papery skin burning slowly
to ash.