At the party our level held for the
summer solstice
(geeks, I heard the other buildings sneer)
the tarmac never cooled.
It was the shortest night of the year.

We swayed on honey at midnight
as Flat 7's resident mystic
played with fire:
the danger is the beauty,
the power the dark-haired boy held in
his feet
as he walked across hot coals.

In a trance, he found
a rhythm,
danced light-footed to the pulse
of the embers.

The science group disparaged
his claim that it was a matter of faith,
but what sets him apart,
this firewalker among us?
It's the step we failed to take,
the belief that we could take no harm.

So tonight I'll slip my shoes off
and offer my bare soles and my faith
to your fire.