Act 1

The first act: the attic, moonlight at the window,
two poor men dressed in rags, burning what they love
to feel warmth, not realizing that in winter
nothing keeps the wind out. The poet watches his words
take flame and laughs to taste the smoke.
Food is sparse now. Money, too, is low, though time

is not as precious and he doesn’t think to save. Enough time
he thinks, to keep us hungry, looking out the cold window
at snow too thin to cover the dirty street. The smoke
dissipates, the garret turns grey. Any love
he’d once held for the romance of poverty is gone. Words
make only a little heat in this unfortunate winter

and even in the wood-stove hold no sparkle. In winter
they need lit candles to write bad stories in time
to pay bloated landlords that won’t take words
for rent. His friends depart as he stands by the window.
He watches them bicker, dance. Soon love
will turn his philosophy to smoke.

Months have passed since he last smelled the smoke,
the rich unfurling feathers at his nose that winter
steals the softness from. Consumption in love,
he hopes. Lust, decadence of emotion, stasis of time
to delude misery to the kinder sting of jealousy. At the window,
when she knocks, he puts his words

to use, but she faints, and leaves him only words
that on waking make her recall the smoke
that last baron spat into her face. But then from the window,
light enters.  Hands touch, and even in this winter
it ignites. Never mind that there is only so much time
they can have to rest their bodies at the fire. It isn’t love

they look for here at introduction. It isn’t love
that she looks to when she crafts the words
that let him think he knows her. He thinks there will be time
to uncover more than her name, her flowers, more than this smoke
she waves shyly towards him. After all, it is winter
in Paris and two people can stand at a window

hand in hand to forget that time has no affection for love.
There is a wide clear window words are hurled from
but this smoke between them heats. The winter loses frost.