It was you, on my right,
on my left, with your heated
sighs, who molded my helix,
whispering at my side.
- Joseph Brodsky, 'Seven Strophes'
Spin
In the beginning was fire and ice, and so whole worlds are born.
A village disappears beneath molten snow and sparks that spit like angry stars; a man bleeds to death on the crest of a mountain made from the spine of a frost giant.
In the end, for all of us, there is only the fire. Black scorch, white light.
Your skin burns hot and it feeds on sunlight.
But now is not my time to die, nor yours, neither.
And until then, this is me and you: the magnetic needle answering to the one true north, the mystery tune to the moth's serpentine dance.
Like this I am drawn.
My soles rake the coals, kissing the embers, receiving no harm, until then.
8 October 2008