Advertised as pre-smoked by machine,
its burgundy briar shone through plastic
in the garish, fluorescent light
of Walgreen’s, ready for my pleasure.
I smoke it as my Friday evening ritual.
Perhaps I also smoke it for a smidgen of,
preserved through the millennia,
all that smoke and fire attendant
to God’s creation of the universe.
What’s a black hole but the aftermath
of God drawing a single draft?
The birth of a star but its exhalation?