The house is a vault of frozen air

The house is a vault of frozen air.

I’m digging through trash with a frantic stare.

The box is worn down to a strip of dull grit.

I just want a flame that stays actually lit.

I drag the red head across the brown track.

A sharp, dry snap and the dark pulls back.

The smell of the sulfur is heavy and brief.

A second of heat is a cheap relief.