cries as if it's counting down
with numbers --its voice
more and more colder than yours

and this ceiling blown off, the crew
opening a door in the floor
to warm the street below

--with each match a great heat
is sucked into the middle
into an ancient longing

--you offer the sun a twin
that would survive, a gentle light
endless, washing over the Earth

over your fingers each year
lower, stroking what could be
a dog's bark and the matches

breaking on every wall
for windows that fall
through the holes and your arms.