In a scrunch of white sand we filter silica.
We tinder our hopeful fire into a scorching furnace,
scatter grains within its wayward flame.
You take a pipe, dip into the fever, pick up molten lovemusic for us.
You cool the singing notes on the cold marble I prepare.
They harden on the outside while the inside melts.
You blow the music outwards into a bubbling symphony.
Before you face fire again I ask if you’ll roll the new bubble
over my confetti of multi-coloured petals.
You turn away, saying you have no time for frit.
I attempt to spread blue, yellow and pink powders along your path.
You avoid them too, insisting you wish to make
something clean and clear, like starlight.
You sip the water I offer to slake your thirst.
You use a jack to shape our fused forms over a paddled base.
I ask if I can tweeze out the outline of your lips
but you place a diamond shears in my hand
so that I can fashion the plinth
while you pester our bubble
into the shape of us.
Later you transfer all to a cooler oven.
Tempered like that, our two selves will not crack.
We will step out into the world, splendid and sharp as obsidian.