A struck match. Smoke droning in the nostrils.
Central figure: carpenter—but rhinestoned—

that half-hammer-musician beatboxing some 2X4
that will eventually, along with the skeleton

of this house-in-progress flake like a charred paper plane.
The entire eco-friendly matchbox—set aflame—

disappears from jasmine-infused fingers into a pile of planks.
He’s so seared inside, his mind already unpeopled, he is dumb

to the brume of smog spiraling upward and even when others say
he woke too late to the smoke, they are wrong—he did not wake at all.

That is to say, his mind has always been slate dark, soot-smug,
and anyway, he just took this job to placate his father.

He is roused by nothing. Not even the conflagration
in his wake. Once you understand that, you realize

you never really knew how to help him.
You will be tempted to quit trying.