With Flint In His Handshake

Your fingernails are fuses
And target trails to nerves
Under tissue-paper layers
Smothering oily rags

And when the kerosene lips
Asked for a light
You gave without sniffing
His after-shave armature

With black powder looks
Slipped you a cocktail napkin
His phone number in charcoal
Primer cord for the detonation