It was the dark black smoke of la grifa
    that killed Nevarez one night in April
    sitting in bed, hands on the only woman
    who ever loved him.

    There was no cruel light from the mirror
    or the sun--there wasn't any transcription
    from another world, etched
    into the ether. But love

    drifting this way and that. The balloon
    he saw, low, near the edge of his life
    the lights gone out. It was Hiroshima's

    dark smoke that burned him
    into the other side--not the woman
    who loved him, but the dream
    of her cruel light, a mirror from the sun
    floating over every city on earth.