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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2009-07-29 | [Text in der Originalsprache: english] | Veröffentlicht von jkloungsuh
We can look into the stove tonight
as into a mirror, yes, the serrated log, the yellow-blue gaseous core the crimson-flittered grey ash, yes. I know inside my eyelids and underneath my skin Time takes hold of us like a draft upward, drawing at the heats in the belly, in the brain You told me of setting your hand into the print of a long-dead Indian and for a moment, I knew that hand, that print, that rock, the sun producing powerful dreams A word can do this or, as tonight, the mirror of the fire of my mind, burning as if it could go on burning itself, burning down feeding on everything till there is nothing in life that has not fed that fire
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