Smokebeam --------------- And now I retrive a fine Panetala out of the dark leather travelling humidor that he brought along for me to store the ten that he gave presented me last week. I like my women to smoke cigars - he had said. Bellowing blue smoke in the dingy room now hotter that the sweat has languished on these sheets, on the pillow on which I kneaded my knees. By and by the smoke sleeps, the ranting, the panting, the slanting sunbeams that light the smoke blue on which our souls sparkle and collide, random movements - a stray length of hair - strikes. Shadows brood now as I turn the blinds down. In this no-light, in beamless delight we- particles of desire - again go back and fight, our own strikes, our bangs, our random hits. We proceed, in darkening crevices, to contrive a future and erase the past. But the moment, oh the moment does not last, does not stop, does not slow. We hurry, push again and tire. I could easily flick the blinds open and invite the sun to light smokebeams over our fetal bodies: the surprise of light on his flesh and mine. mG. ***