Close Cover Before Striking
A poem
The ancient part of my brain
Counts my heartbeats as I sleep
It is the reason I am terrified of spiders and centipedes
But not, somehow, of fire
The world is evanescence and
Must allow for leaks of peculiarity
Like I can make fire but am afraid of fire
Made by someone else
I can make love but am afraid of love
Made by someone else
Look at all their wildfires
Red swirling around their feet
Like walking through roses or blood
You can’t exaggerate the function
Of an infinitesimal light that
That can be seen a mile away
Can burn clean through to bone
In less time than the big light arrives from the Sun
With just enough paraffin to char
When I was young there was a boy who set things ablaze
Mostly dead trees, punk dry wood that would be
Unaware it was combining with oxygen
The flames never touched him and
He died eventually, probably from
Something involving sex and gasoline
Peculiar, the rule of fire is not for our safety
But for others, and for things that are
Unintentionally combustible
