Were lit, it would curl out in a ripping
Unevenly achieved moksha forth from.
And even broadly the universe would
As the dog that stands in a hill of ants.
Sparks, smoke, scraggly brush. The chugging machine.
Jokes at work without getting fired for
Black and red ripped ends. Smoke it as if it
Were angry fire that ants unblinkingly
Allow. Homemade sausage native of weeds
Punctuated by work as numb plants that
Swarm up my leg stinging me around pine,
Oak, and sweetgum giving way to red fields.
But when sparks and ash spewed thump-thump-thump from,
Brahman was the sound sparks and ash don’t say.