Wishes In

The pit has been ripped open, now.
It is gaping, dilating.
Could I reside inside its swell,
inside
its glowing burn?

The cliff I stand, trembling, on, looking down
is made of porcelain and unreal. 
I throw, at least,
my wishes in,
what lives inside me, splitting.

Flames lick at my feet, calling tongues, importuning- come inside,
come back,
              drink
             your fortune here.  Here,
where fire
           flows.  Taste goodness,
          experience the purity of falling,
                    of resolute release, taste freedom. 

The rippling desire grows
from deep-seated seed; from the pit, and the call
reaches a fever-pitch, a swell, rising up, high-whistled, excited,
drowning out the dark.

Then,
the notes stand
              still.

Can I abandon earth?  Give up warmth
for heat?  Forsake ground? 

What cracks?  My habit of step?  Of self?
               My will?  My stance upon these loosening muds?

Descending, I rise
and leaping feels like landing
and the call envelops me in her wash.

I dreamt of death,
of the light beyond my grasp
in day,
the healing
                              depths finally held
but my hands were sweating and I woke.

The Sunday Whirl