Smell my burning hands,

Clean hot carbon.

I am scourd,

I am new again.

I would rather sear than spoil—

a clean, bright death.

In that red,

all things are mutable,

the iron glows with hot movement.

I fear much,

but not the flame.

I understand the flame,

I respect the flame.

It does not consume,

it transforms.

Not death,

but new life.

Heat death.

Idiotic.

What is one heat,

but henosis?