Hunger for Something

Sometimes I long to be the woodpile, cut-apart trees soon to be smoke, or even the smoke itself, sinewy ghost of ash and air, going wherever I want to, at least for a while. Neither inside nor out, neither lost nor home, no longer a shape or a name, I’d pass through all the broken windows of the world. It’s not a wish for consciousness to end. It’s not the appetite an army has for its own emptying heart, but a hunger to stand now and then alone on the death-grounds, where the dogs of the self are feeding.