We douse oak limbs with kerosene, accelerant 
we call it, though not one of us 
is in a hurry. They blaze, orange sparks pop
and squiggle like schools of minnows,
like stars-then the glowing, the log 
a breathing lung exhaling smoke sweet
as all the souls we fear we've lost. I pass 
the guitar, drink wine from the bottle 
and make my way to the shadows, 
wanting to sing something 
into the immense blue ear of the night.