At Stake
Against the full moon, Roman candles don't stand
a chance. They're as pointless as firecrackers
at a shooting gallery, no competition for the real
show going on, not behind the scenes, but in it.
Their sparks carve craters in the lawn. Black
circles left by fake meteors launched in a better-
to-burn-out-than-fade-away moment of blindness
and passion. The same kind of passion, perhaps,
that drives some men to seek strangers in silence
and smoulder beside them in sheets so stiff
they could stand by themselves, so rigid
there's no cure, some say, but to burn them.