Washes white
She smokes
Through the window
No fan
The blinds crooked
Bean can for ash (inside: a despicable oily blackness like
Strangled fear—
The nightmares of wild dogs) but
Most ends up
On the floor anyway
She leans lips strained
Pushing the smoke through the screen
Rather than blowing
A soft blue
From the television
(Like signs of old film diners)
Splashes her shirt and
When she smiles
(At something I say)
Her teeth