The change crowds in chorus, wanting out through the convex glass overhead: dimes resting foreheads against quarters, against pennies that aren't worth much and periodically get thrown away, against dirty dollars rolled up in stacks of five or six or seven, adding on. And they want out in the world -
and the matches wearing their flammable coats want to burn their jackets, send them upwards in a draft, out through the tin lid underside sky.

There is not enough air to burn in a world of thick glass, no way to shake out of their jackets and strike. They flap slowly open and closed, whisper cardboard and sulpher, where they sit up something beautiful on the shelf. Where she sleeps in her bed, everything else around her not so neatly collected, everything else around her escaping and running into each other, like colors in art school, getting printed up by her hands and her feet and her hair and panic displaced on possessions... and when the time is right she will roll the change, carry pounds to the bank on her back in the honey jar, open the honey jar and let enough air into the whispering matchbooks, set the carboard and sulpher loose, and set fire to the art school colors out of control across the floor

(they will burn like streaks of gasoline on a lawn,
they will burn like the oil on water,
they will burn like the turn of a lighthouse lamp,
like a heart ful of red air.)

And the world will be grey with the smoke again,
hot with floating embers,
they are whispering up ahead,
the soles of their feet dirt black and cracked,
up with the ashes and soot.

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