Cigarette in yellowing hand
she is wreathed in smoke,
a saint hoping to burn.
Her free hand
wanders, fingering
a pen, stale bread;
eyes restless,
knowing truth is silent
and God absent,
yet,
like thought, they hover
on the outside of certainties.
She shifts a little,
picks up the pen
and waits
as saints do,
in perfect solitude.