Fire

Gathering armfuls of wood, feeling terrific,
the wind off the sea, lighting three matches
at one time and a legitimate reason to do so:
some beautiful women are beginning to feel
chill. The twists of newspaper catch and are
impressive, my face completely disinterested
as if to say: This Is Nothing. My hands among
the yellow flames: fearless reorganiser. Kindling
alight but the planks not wanting to take
and the shame at having expected the wrong thing
like yelling at someone to turn their music down
and them apologising and saying they didn’t realise
it was so loud and being really nice about it.

Nothing more I can do but wait and make myself
comfortable and talk about something different:
the environment as a class issue, Bangladesh,
how we met Martha and how we were cold earlier
and now we are warm, almost needing to take
off a layer, and someone says that watching the fire
is better than TV, and I think of saying:
‘and you don’t get any adverts’ but I hold myself
back for fear of being that sort of person.

Later, the fire is a representation of myself.
I walk to the tide line and notice the stars,
lots and lots of stars, in clouds, in seasoning,
and no way of telling anything, only the idea
that the light that reaches us is trillions of years old,
like a pre-recorded gameshow, or like a classic comedy
re-run and fire-lighting, as a skill, was mastered
while dinosaurs made loud noises and, although
we have known all this for some time,
I am astounded by the shifting perspective.