As is his habit, he smokes the rolled cigarette
down to ashes before taking up the brush.
He waits for the smoke to linger over him,
for its aroma to stay in his hair— the cue
to push the first arc for the grey stones
on the hill he so desperately wants to
capture before the avalanche comes.
And when, he has to start over,
(as he must when they always fall),
there is the Boscaini red and the glass
on the floor, the re-inspiration aperitif
always nearby and available by the case,
that washes away the ashes in his mouth.
Like always, he throws this attempt away,
spreads out the now black angel swirls on
the bedspread — and tries another line.