when I woke up on fire my first thought
was for matches, for I was no trifler,
I was a fire-artist in earnest:
my comrades, they brushed the sparks off
like so much glitter, like so much dust,
and I opened my hands, gathered
every glint and flick, though they would
scatter, splinter from the marriage I
was wont to make of them: ash by glow
aside kindle next to flame: already
on fire I held its moving glister, and
readied the breath of my breast to blow–
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