forest fire

tell me i am not the only who is here to swallow flames? 
i don't want to be a fighter anymore. i want to be the moss
whose grandchildren talk about green like it is
a gone island. i look at my block & see a colony of matches. 
walking with a bucket of water. i can't do this.
i can't anymore, seeing how many burns 
a building can wear before it is condemned. 
my first boyfriend & i used to collect lighters.
flick them open & find anything to light. 
calendars & brush & bruises. each other's tongues.
i am no longer convinced grow-back is coming. smoke comes
like antelope, galloping alleys. i'm asking then, are we gone?