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17 The Match The burner and the blackout crave you: pilot of heat, purveyor of the innocent candle and cigarette, light we tame to tame the night. Cupped, inviolate, a winter moth or prayer we never sent away, you live in seconds what we name a life. A sudden cleansing, you Prometheus come as toothpick, the false fire lent to our fingertips, lightbulb of the lame idea: may your phosphorus forgive us, old flame. ...

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