This morning even before
I drew back the curtains I felt the smog
in my nose and chest,
a strong smog layering the light
in the sky, tessellating yellow
and pink like a ballerina’s tulle,
a beauty not consolation
but misdirection, since
we go on abiding and abiding
the source of it:
we light the coal in the fireplace
on cold nights, open the chimney
so the sky is the one
adorned by smoke
like the smoke I used
to mark my arrival home,
a little yellow house
beside the paper factory.
My sulfurous youth.