its graceful and balletic indifference.
They don’t like its theatrically
the cool nonchalance of the orange flame.
On the bomb site and in the circus ring
we played with it, like a half-tamed lion
we ran it up and down our arm
we swallowed it, to display our mastery.
But now no spirit or element may contradict
the illusion of human certainty.
Fire is unpredictable. Blame Prometheus.
One day, a spark from flint catches on moss
and curls into divinity. Next thing – gastronomy.
Soon, we’ll be forced to surrender all of our tricks
in an amnesty of the uncontrollable.
We’ll live in a perfect world of dials and monitors.
How can I light up my briar pipe?
They don’t care. Next, they have their eyes on smoke.
