My life's calling， setting fires.
Here in a hearth so huge
I can stand inside and shove
the wood around with my
bare hands while church bells
deal the hours down through
the chimney. No more
woodcutter， creel for the fire
or architect， the five staves
pitched like rifles over stone.
But to be mistro-elemental.
The flute of clay playing
my breath that riles the flames，
the fire risen to such dreaming
sung once from landlords' attics.
Sung once the broken lyres，
seasoned and green.
Even the few things I might save，
my mother's letters，
locks of my children's hair
here handed over like the keys
to a foreclosure， my robes
remanded， and furniture
dragged out into the yard，
my bedsheets hoisted up the pine，
whereby the house sets sail.
And I am standing on a cliff
above the sea， a paper light，
a lantern. No longer mine
to count the wrecks.
Who rode the ships in ringing，
marrying rock the waters
storm to break the door，
looked through the fire， beheld
a clearing there. This is what
you are. What you've come to