The Center of the Fire

No more wine for me!
I'm past delighting in the thick red 
and the clear white.

I'm thirsty for my own blood 
as it moves into a field of action.

Draw the keenest blade you have 
and strike, until the head circles 
about the body.

Make a mountain of skulls like that.
Split me apart.

Don't stop at the mouth! 
Don't listen to anything I say.
I must enter the center of the fire.

Fire is my child
but I must be consumed
and become fire.

Why is there crackling and smoke? 
Because the firewood and the flames 
are still talking:
                       "You are too dense. Go away!"
"You are too wavering. I have solid form."

In the blackness those two friends keep arguing.
Like a wanderer with no face.
Like the most powerful bird in existence
sitting on its perch, refusing to move.

What can I say to someone so curled up with wanting,
so constricted in his love?

Break your pitcher against a rock. 
We don't need any longer
to haul pieces of the ocean around.

We must drown, away from heroism, 
and descriptions of heroism.
Like a pure spirit lying down, pulling 
its body over it, like a bride her husband 
for a cover to keep her warm.