that if my hand enters the flame
nerves will be burnt
not to feel further.
I pull the metal curtain,
shut the glass doors.
The fire flares orange to yellow.
Away from its heat
I am cold.
Maybe I could
callous fingertips to the point
they can enter fire
mesh in it fully
if only for a moment.
Phil Flott is a retired Catholic priest. Lately he has had poems in Vita Poetica, Agape Review, Poetic Sun, and others.
Photo Credit: “hand/fire” by Serena Epstein, Flickr.com.