A box of matches on the patio
settles everything – by fifty, sister,
you will be master of close-up tricks,

excellent at sleight of hand. But first
you must set fire to wicker furniture
in the backyard, let the fumes

from the flaming table haze over
the rhododendrons. Seven minutes
unobserved is ample time to turn

into someone else entirely, someone
who has always been likely
but restrained, mistaken for mood.

The the grass catches. A peppery haze
clouds the rounded back windows
of the house. Presses its way inside.

(Idra Novey, from The Next Country.)