Stroke a match

Stroke a match
to make the evening last,
Wasted through each splinter, splinter,
Broken ink trails on my skin's past.
And while brittle as the fog of dawn,
I branded winter as a fleeting bond.
Maybe I've only written to pretend,
But in the brink of hiding fault,
I bring sheets of sandpaper to spend.


Back when I slept with myself barely,
I knew only the match box empty.
Now I abide
and abide plenty,
and at evenings subside
to the corners seen fit,
taking on the roles I can find.
They said beggars can't sit,
now my hand knows to stand wide.

Untitled (1967). Otto Piene. Mixed media (fire gouache) on canvas