Not even October

and I’m dead set on a fire:

the year’s first.


Barely cold, but I want

to ball paper, lay kindling,


strike a match, smell autumn.

The same as a boy:


the sleepovers, bike rides, fishing trips –

always the next thing, always



I’ve got good at this – wielding an axe.


Wood splits:

a hollow ring.


Soon now, I’ll sit

and watch today go up in smoke.