That coy fire we set our soles on...
Dare, dare, to stroll what can’t be walked,
to stroll what goes unendured;
fire, ever thinking of new knives,
willing itself to be furred with pins.
What can’t be coped will be compassed,
and caught in sev’ral neat letters.
Fire, yoked and whipped
to run in reasoned paths.
-2003
