As its black tip question-marks,
and then dwindles, I just have time
to wonder: have I really ever
made a fire? Or was it
always just—the match.
And
who invented these things anyway?
And did that person ever consider
all the future generations—brightly
going around feeling like creators
when actually, that gleam
of genius in their eyes
was preemptively put there—
by starlight, by manure
and cow's milk
and carbon and cod liver,
by the bodies of two strangers
just out for a good time—just for one
headless goddamn moment—
in the more pleasurable dark.
