by Jake Reynolds

Before Vesuvius there was no name
for volcano
now with silver muzzles
four eyes, a butterfly tongue
we you I nurse pocket explosions
in well pockets etc.

capsules tanks of the stuff the
fluid the artist took
to arms
to burn
a sketchbook he was ashamed of
(fair, the quivering beck
textured like tweed quilts?)
pages yellow all rancid

firefly nectar in you, this
the belly of the beast or
arson’s handbook
‘for dummies’

place where wasps are born
conceived where they feed
and spout proud fire.