I take a convenience sample

from the small sampling

frame at the party.

I sample one person – you.

We talk over ice water

before you take my

hand and lead me

                                             outside,

saying you have something to show me.

As my eyes study the symmetrical beauty

of your fire-lit face,

cerebral matter recognises patterns

and makes new discoveries:

a wrinkle here,

a scar there.

I consider reaching out to touch

your flushed cheek

but the moment has already evaporated,

transmuting into the next one.

Suddenly, you are a body in motion.

I step back to observe

the physics of your physique

dancing gracefully through space and time,

cutting cleanly through free-floating atoms –

the elements of this country air

that we inhale.

Your wrists

twist

before me so dextrously

that you could be working bright magic.

I am transfixed by the show.

That aluminium staff you brandish

twirls rapidly before me,

glowing warmly at each end

as flaming wicks give off photons

to a starry, moonless night.

My eyes cannot keep up with the light;

the ring of fire that you twirl

with practiced ease

chases itself into infinity

and back again

while undulating like a Möbius strip.

The smell is

combustive,

the sound

aerodynamic,

the sight

hypnotic.

I close my eyes but still see your fire

twirling on the backs of my eyelids.

In this afterimage, I glimpse

a familiar face lit by flames.

I consider my sample size:

n = 1.