Building a Fire

Often I kindle desperate yellow flames 
that leap into a chimney 
I have failed to clean 
And the newspapers still rolled 
in rubber bands lend fuel 
to wooden blocks and new logs 
too green to burn 
except with the kerosene, which makes 
everything engulf itself 
All of my life is circumspect and edged 
except for that one moment 
when everything is illuminated 
by trial or force or small tries 
and something remote in me 
brightens and moves closely 
to the beauty of heat 
where I have not yet adjusted 
the sturdy black vents 
to the passion of pulled color 
and red splintered spits