an enormous fire inside me
surrounded by snow.
The flames don’t leap out — I’m a self-contained oven,
like all the other ovens,
minding their own hot coals.
The snow feels thick,
like marshmallows,
heavy damp clouds,
hugging in the warmth,
buffering the edges,
maintaining and containing.
The dichotomy of this hotness/coldness
creates its own atmosphere,
something neither hot or cold,
encompassing all the feelings,
beyond feeling.
Feeling everything at once,
feeling loses its meaning,
like freezing to death while going up in flames simultaneously.
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