Tame Flame

Master fears his hot-headed lackey;
confines it to metal, ceramic, stone.
Watching, waiting, he fears in degrees:
first, second, and finally most feared: third; it exposes bone.

Metrics, however, abound: flash-points and no-smoking signs belie the perverse intimacy
of the user and the used,
owner and the unownable.
Both dance the dance of fiendish intricacy.

Taught to act on aftermath, fallout,
I wonder where prevention is discussed.