A thin line of gray smoke is moving up

A thin line of gray smoke is moving up
toward the fan, the butts and bottles, chairs
and music ring in the corners of the room
that's littered with inappropriate vowels.

A thick and fluid song flows in between
her lips like water, in between the banks
of a strange river that began somewhere above
the horizon where the mountain touches sky.

I'm without meaning in the versification
of modern poets, in the copyrighted material
and dazzling array of self-published books.

But smoke and water, fire and clouds bring
change to this architecture, and I see her
disclosed in every task, though unsolicited.