A dark cover tarps
the ricochet of children, lovers
alley dogs and mothers.
One street lamp glares
exactly like the others:
a row of glowing choral bulbs.
They crave my fingers to pluck them,
to rub their petals
of delicate street decor
until the city erupts in sweet amber.
Ashes and ashes, sparks and dust
a holiday plate of exhausted must.
Fire berries, the tail of a dragon
or a clock's cogs with rust.
My eyes dive into the lit wicks
of oil lamps and combust!
Matchsticks and matchsticks,
gold lockers and sap,
these marigold flames burn below-
my African bonfire, my new city's map.
-ang buxton
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