Enough coats of paint on the tin
you can barely read "MATCHES,"
made so the box slides in
with a trough for the smoking head
and a slot on the side for the striker,
a masterpiece of function, old enough
to recede, not wholly visible,
some of it left to the past,
a bit out of focus, detail blurred
by the haze of years
and the pressure of hands,
in the phosphorous flare in the dark
sometimes you can see them again.
