Bonfire in Philadelphia

Matches are never enough by themselves. They always need
steady fingers and no breeze. And then
we wheeze—the smoke adopting limbs of its own and
growing around warm faces and freshly tongued beer bottles.
Blue blurs into marmalade orange and violent yellow—we are
all connected. Each flame develops fingers and toes that wiggle
upward and snap at people sitting close rolling cigarettes. The source
spits parts of itself into the black orb all around—the little orange balls
fly off and die before they land, or meet with a pair of torn corduroys or a strand of hair—receiving a startled gasp and silencing slap. The limbs replenish themselves at the base and twist their legs around each other;
unashamedly making love in the middle of our circle.