Arson in A minor

On the train,
by the door,
going home,
when she steps in and leaves her cigarette burning on the platform.

The second week of July,
not a drop of rain for weeks,
nothing but parched ground and dry wind.

Beside the station just waving fields of yellow grass,
beyond that pine forests.

And there,
on the ground,
her discarded embers.

Smoke rising,
a pure swell,
that pure swirl,
so impure,
so perfect,
so full of consequence.
And her smell.
Just sex,
just unjust.
Just an enticement,
a coax,
a come hither,
a why bother,
to resist.
A,
‘just let the warm wind blow,
and ignite you,
and invite you’,
and not to accept a ‘no’.

Not even a smoulder,
no spark,
no gradual,
she takes me straight to those perfect orange flicking tongues,
straight to my chest,
to my heart,
to my lungs,
up my throat to breathe rough and smooth and promise,
with a glow,
in her eyes,
that it’ll just be a little forest fire,
just a minor inferno.