Let's see.
All right, this one's called "Fumarole,"
which is the name for the steam vent for an underground lava
or some kind of hot cistern underneath, the fumarole.
Beyond the spelunker's last chossy handfast,
past the furthest unwind of a rescuer's line,
a boy as limber and scabbed as I got him wedged tight
in a pinch of granite.
I have finger-and-toed that hole, forward inch by inch,
cheek by rock, have jackknifed my hipsockets over the jut that
caught him up, have fumbled fingerblind for an edge,
an elbow for leverage, a pull and then through.
What I found down in that hot dark I've forgotten.
The ground is an oubliette wherein unechoed, dull,
the tongue unsings its hungers, and the human push
to prove itself runs out against the terminal wall,
breathless and bent small.
Whatever the boy found belongs now to cement and trowel.
They sealed the cave's mouth when he died.
That's something that happened a few years ago
in the West Desert of Utah.
There was a boy who got himself upside down,
stuck upside down, in a fumarole and he never came out, so.