We can look into the stove tonight <br />as into a mirror, yes, <br /> <br />the serrated log, the yellow-blue gaseous core <br /> <br />the crimson-flittered grey ash, yes. <br />I know inside my eyelids <br />and underneath my skin <br /> <br />Time takes hold of us like a draft <br />upward, drawing at the heats <br />in the belly, in the brain <br /> <br />You told me of setting your hand <br />into the print of a long-dead Indian <br />and for a moment, I knew that hand, <br /> <br />that print, that rock, <br />the sun producing powerful dreams <br />A word can do this <br /> <br />or, as tonight, the mirror of the fire <br />of my mind, burning as if it could go on <br />burning itself, burning down <br /> <br />feeding on everything <br />till there is nothing in life <br />that has not fed that fire<br /><br />Adrienne Rich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/burning-oneself-out/
