Poem Improvised Around a First Line

the smoke in my bedroom which is always burning
worsens you, motorcycle Icarus;
you are black and leathery and lean and
you cannot distinguish between sex and nicotine
anytime, it’s all one thing for you —
cigarette, phallus, sacrificial fire —
all part of that grimy flight
on wings axlegreased from Toronto to Buffalo
for the secret beer over the border —
now I long to see you full-blown and black
over Niagara, your bike burning and in full flame
and twisting and pivoting over Niagara
and falling finally into Niagara,
and tourists coming to see your black leather wings
hiss and swirl in the steaming current —
now I long to give up cigarettes
and change the sheets on my carboniferous bed;
O baby, what hell to be Greek in this country —
without wings, but burning anyway