A door is open, a lamp lit.

That is how I think of it,

forgetting the door’s a fissure,

the

lamp molten.  I’m mesmerized 

by yellow rock in motion,

glowing, flowing, under black.

I see this happening on television,

fear if I were there

 

I could lose all sense of danger,

all memory of running footprints in cooled ash,

and want to enter. Imagine

stepping in, then in an instant

gone, cinderless, a hiss of steam

almost before you could feel

that perfect burning.

 

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from Bamboo Ridge

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