Smoke isn`t in my eyes

1st check for hedgehogs,
2nd wind direction,
3rd is it Sundays?

Tinder no larger than a spit
unraveled  by nicotine fingers
just one match.
I was abandoned for a roll up.
Smoke not enough for me
I demanded flames
built a scaffold of prunings,
bashed them flat with the pitchfork.
He returned, took my architecture to bits.
Not even a hot spot.
Another spit, cradled like a new born,
a glow, a breath of life
nurtured on match stick lengths of twigs
and then, and then a flame.
Now smoke doesn`t get in me eyes,
the curling tendrils are Harry.







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