Match
We are hardly more
than splinters of balsa,
whispers
of phosphorus and wax.
We lie quiet,
shifting with the merest
click and rustle,
top to tail.
But we are not sleeping.
We’re jumpy, volatile;
the tips of us itch for friction,
for the sandpaper rush, the catch,
the dazzle of our leaping flame.
Our blazing death.
They say
you see another life
in that white moment:
A lonely cigarette.
A birthday cake.
A flickering candle, lovers’ faces.
A letter burning in a shaking hand.
Wide eyes,
the smell of petrol,
running feet.
November 2002
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