small fire

On the little black shelf sits a matchbox that I will never slide gently open with nimble fingers

It will cross the earth with me, if need be.

And perhaps I’m depriving its contents of some destiny, waiting

To be handled, struck, brutalized, lighting wicks

Melting wax if left lonesome, long unattended, attendant to its own disposal.

For each flame never provoked a dim light appears for me

Weary traveler on a dark road I follow that small fire

That moves ever in its steadiness, we are equidistant watching each other through the night

(Meanwhile certain fish swim upstream to get home beating smooth body against current)

Strangeness abounds

The utter mystery of joy at the breaking day, cow bells in the distance still I walk

Teased by the glow, it just might be

From the platform a girl shouts to her companion I love you and silence on the other side—

That silence troubles me, this moment years ago

Each divergence still brighter, though, in its burning the train rolls by

Baden-Baden, what a silly name I write in my journal

Geometry splashed across the ugly blue carpet, want to disappear

Orange red yellow triangles overlaid they look happy together (I don’t write this)

I know fish who gift matches, unlit they promise something whisper whisper

We’d tangle lovely forever but for the matter of the current

And the lantern just discernible, just ahead

Excruciating presence.