I avoid splitting infinities.

But a log?

Right down the middle.

Sliced and diced.

Quartered and sequestered.  

Racked and stacked.

The goal: a fiery furnace

To set a tone, a test,

A temp.

It crackles me up.

I get stoked

And place my thoughts

In the center glow,

To see which ones

Go up in smoke,

Or spark a prayer,

Maybe light an idea,

An ember of creativity.

Who knows, maybe its

Infinity in need of a split.