Smoking Joke

I try to tell it plain:
the day is clear,
my fingertips smell of matches,
and my castoff cigarette
burns like pain on the patio.
Some things,
different smolders,
are incommensurate;
suns and eyes and ache
have nothing to do
with tobacco’s glow and savor,
nor can fire
speak to inner terror.
But the day is clear,
vision is a kind of burning,
and what is there
but to see all at once?