she was as lovely as an ohio 
bluetip match. but there was only one of 
her, so even if i held her up high
we could barely see. we lost our way.

it takes a devoted arsonist to 
love a match so—to live with one so long,
unburned, intact, so enamored of this
one’s specific, infernal potential.

what to call the match that prefers not to
burn? pure to the point of defying its
own purpose. now matched.

i am stopped, dropped, and rolled. and just when i
am at my most extinguished, she whispers
in my ear, “raze is such a funny word.”