Fingertips
I could write this flame,
Drawing moths with my pen, pushing
their wings into the
heat, burning
bodies to feathery ashes. Turning
the wings into
words, writing
the name of love in the flickering
dying flame.
I could write this flame. But
I would rather hold it
here
between my fingertips,
the charring match. The orange heat.
The thickly flickering
wood-sweet burning smell,
The
sulphurous flare of the head.
The coldness of the heart.