Was it perverse
to light the woodstove
while the power was cut
for fire danger?
I could take dark, but not
cold and dark. Maybe
that’s why I like to burn
the candle by your urn.
I remember how cold
your feet were in bed.
I remember something
each time I strike
the match, bring it
to the wick. Like the night
I raced you home, stripped
my clothes as I drove,
flipped the top of the hot tub,
slipped in as you pulled up.
The moon shining from
the surface of the water.