I can see the plume above your head
billows as if you were a mayor
in flammable hair. The river won’t ignite
this time. You’re on your own 

with your torch tonguing
its way between stays to the old
wood. What a mouth
you’ve got on you. Mine

pressing against it
won’t save the world, won’t
prevent collapse. Kisses
rarely dampen anything. I’d like
my torch back.