Touch stick to fire:
            the flame I fish out
                        blisters the surface black

like the Long Island Press
            pushed down the chute
                        in those days when we incinerated

things we didn’t need
            and sent delicate ash moths
                        flitting over brick apartment towers.

So yes, when I bite in
            it flakes on my tongue
                        with the taste of charred news.

But beneath that, sweetness
            that swallows the brain
                        like when you hold your breath and

count, and count, and then can’t.