Sinking

Eternity harbors ghosts in the guise
of memory. A wisp of smoke curls

from the butt of a dying cigarette.
Your image, summoned by the scent,

returns to haunt me. When I still sat
on your knee (even then) I knew

you were shrinking. Eyes set deep,
gray and dull: shards of coal

in a snowman’s face (at the thaw).
Sinking, three fingers deep

in a brown bottle. You: my first
taste of liquor, so sweet (still bitter).

Life was take (and take), sifting
through ashes. When they took

your legs at the knees, I could
almost carry you, then. Quaking,

sallow and creased, a tragedy
written on fading parchment skin.

(Even then) I knew you were slipping
from gnarly, tar-stained fingers

like the butt of an unfiltered Camel
flicked to the gravel drive.

Now a ghost of memory, you still rise
in acrid ringlets from the waning stump:

a fragile persistence the first, soft
ripple of a breeze might scatter.