firepa

I insist on watching
while you start the fire,
 
and riding on the wings of my favorite sour ale
we went from french-kissing tongues of flame
to embers.
Our still skin stayed for a while,
a floor for crackling orange dances.
 
Smoky smears of gray
stumble home into the violet spring sky
above us, and
inspire my lips to tell yours something,
to throw sparks along your jaw.
 
Colors like that
get the ink running into my life
and help me write what I mean,
 
and rip a window into my night
so anyone can see.
 
You have a lap I can't help but
stick to like I stuck my fingers into  
purple glue sticks in third grade
 
with no motive other than
mischievous pleasure and play
 
and to make something I think is beautiful.