Edges (Elements?) (revised)

I. Bellows

i did not have a fireplace
growing up, and the sound
of bellows was foreign to me. even the word,
i couldn't grasp the first time i heard it: soft, right off,
like faint praise that colors rosy cheeks, young.
trimmed fingernails tapping gently against a tabletop
of cherry.

then i heard the war cry
of the Romans:
in bello civili.

the flames it should be breathing onto didn't exist
in a hearth. the flames, electric blue ones
turning to the deep blue of the sea,
of the moment between turning off the lights and finding
the edge of my bed again.
more and more is being taken in,
less and less for me to breathe.