Tongs Poem by Rhys Owens

i want to burn it all down
so it'll be so hot
i'll have to take it out with tongs.
i want to take it out
with my hands;
and know i'm still alive.
that's what.

a man needs to burn everything
to know it's still there.
to be alive,
a man has to burn his self
down with the truth of it,
of her and him and all the rest
that opens in his mind
and sees itself with his eyes
that lingers in his body's hold on the world,
to know it's still there.

i burn it down every time;
every year,
and when nothing happens,
there's a deep freeze...
but freeze is never deep
enough;
we have to burn it out:
and when they don't come
to empty everything out into ourselves again,
we have to burn it out alone.

every season has its own cool burn.
whether the breeze of summertime,
or the winter snow when no one knows...
how long...how long? -
and all anybody cares in fragments.
wasting away the youth they can never remember
to have.

i want to burn down this youth they claim.
i want to break it if that's all it is;
a petty break. and give it back,
knowing you're still alive.
after the break.
and after a while, i burn it all down,
knowing i'm still alive all the while.
whether you make the break or not.

there's still time to burn.
to feel the burning,
and the aftermath that is summer-autumn,
and the leaves are gone.
they are the only going that i imagine.
the only death that i rejoice in.
the burning of the leaves.
until i burn it all down.
again.