It is at those times she is most white-hot he bursts to flame. Those times she is most coal-hard dense-packed internally combusting. Seeing it smelling it almost he moves like dogs do at legs and lamp-posts. In her at this point there is nothing beyond an outer appearance of growing cold. And so he goads her sparking now looking for a little paper, just a little tissue and some twigs. He must be mistaken doesn’t see why she’d burrow wilful deep in ashes. Just moments before it seems to him she was wild, frantic-red devouring. And so he prods at her poker metallic till when at last she does fall open there’s only steam, a form of water.