the furnace

Somehow i can see 

the flashes of moths 

inside your ribcage

I can see them from

three provinces gone

The women here all

hate me

To look in my eyes

they notice everyone
they let go quiet

they think of the cat
under their car tire

and all the fences 

they've leaned against

and hands they never

let have them and blood

they thought too personal

for plastic bags on hooks

Mystics stand on street corners

knowing the distance 

between you and i

knowing my hairline is not

the first crack at death

i have ever taken

knowing i dwell too long

on my own to take grace

from the books i stack 

in the furnace

Bitter art of altruism

a crack in a lung 

a cloud of dust 

You've never 

looked so empty

as when this summer

shone all the way through you