A small windowless house in the woods.
An old man, his glasses propped on the crown of his head
painting wooded landscapes entirely from memory.
One day I found him there
gripping in one hand a bar of soap that looked like dust
and a small shoan pipe in the other.
And so I stood staring at a hazy painting of a small boy,
standing in a stream,
trying to hold on to a wet fish
as the man sat against the far wall
desperately trying to fill the room with smoke.