Solitude has begun to burn the log of self
but the two have not become the unity
of which ash is the visible half-truth.
Foolish ash, who prides yourself
on being the only child of the marriage
of log and flame. You can only
sing through sisters of air. But dualism
denies debate. Log turns ash. Flame becomes air.
No connection but immaculate conception.
Foolish ash of the unassailable future
Disguising yourself as a log
to "protect" the trees presenting solitude
as a forest fire which means less to the forest
than the wooden houses not yet built^�
as if one can see without eyes
or that all that one can see is eyes.
Surely they're mine. Everything is.
Surely pain is an illusion,
and the loss which makes a tree ash
without becoming a log
may warm those by the fireplace
in the summer house of the sun
in which we live and die each second
eluding the censors for sure
and eluding the senses we redefine
as body tingles a word like mind.