Would that you knew how greatly You are guided in this holy catastrophe
Where all is doomed and fire consumes
And you are certain beyond certain
That you are unutterably, unfailingly alone.
Would that you could see the gathering
Round the kiln that is cooking you
Hovering over the gnarly round temperature gauge.
The newer, white and flowing-robed angels
Turn away, cringe, whisper their prayers
"Turn the heat down, for pity's sake! Turn it down!"
While the older, firm-faced, well-braced guides
In their iridescent gowns that are roped
From shoulder to breast and shoulder to breast
And wrapped again and again
And again at the waist
Do chant "Turn it up! Turn it up! Turn it up!"
For these Wise Ones
Adorned in their own courage know
Even as I do, in the kiln
This is the only way for our glaze
To break and shine
The only way to make us
One of them.