Of Fire - 27th April 2000
sitting
match after match lighting
i observe differences
small flimsy matches from matchbooks
meant to light cigarettes of
one-time women
are hard to start
have to be coaxed with the
weight of a thumb into
ignition,
dive deep
into a furor
clambering down the thin stalk
hand over hand
pear-shaped
the blue aura at the head the
pointed tail of orange
going at my fingers as if they will
burst right through and
out the other side
going too fast, a
virgin lover
about halfway down
the comet-tail gets tired of
dragging
realises it will never quite
burst right through
twists around the stalk halfheartedly a
dancer in the claws of a rough night and he
puffs into nothingness
sulfur smoke curling out like vines
catching at the ceiling latching
into cobwebs
lingering in the air long after
all is over
and the little ember at top
blackens itself
healing over quickly so of its tries you can detect
nothing.
light a kitchen match and it is a
roar from a dragon's mouth
a muted scream of fire that settles
into a haunting dance downward
the stick withers under heat
curling as paper in a fireplace
but flame
tall and obstinate
twists a bit and bites
like a fist of nails
creeping southward
the little alien head of
burning charcaol glowing
is lit like a red nose in
all of this paleness and
one must crush the ember-brains from it to
get it to go to sleep
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