I light a million matches
on the doorstep
I wish they would burn

Up goes the hills
We climb with forest fire
to churn birthed dirt

inhale these lit sticks
Hold them and hold
them close to the patch
on your sleeve

in the peak point of a flame
when the marrow is
boiled from your bones
understand these styles are always

dying or dormant
at least for awhile
Wait until you’re fifty
and you might get it
at the doorstep

To cross and cross
pollinate ashes with each mattress
you slept in
passed out in vagrant disregard
of the carvings on the post

Cross it out, cross it out
Cross it out—
the last place you slept
doesn’t mean anything

cause grease stains wash out
you are
washed out of everything un
Soluble unsolved like all fire
born an accident

Tyler and Wayland live in Wichita, Kansas.