The Match

    The burner and the blackout crave you： pilot

    of heat， purveyor of the innocent

    candle and cigarette， light we tamed

    then fed to the night. Cupped， inviolate，

    a winter moth， a prayer we never sent

    away， you live in seconds what we name

    a life， a sudden cleansing. You Prometheus

    come as toothpick， the false fire lent

    to our fingertips， lightbulb of the lame

    idea： may your phosphorus forgive us，

    old flame.