Rising up hotter than lightbulbs,
burning holes in the sofa,
frying the carpet where our bare feet walk.
Its the heat from our invisible bodies.
The parts of us no one can see,
the parts of us no one can touch.
They keep us awake at night,
the missing parts that ache,
and sweat themselves out in sweet dreams,
in ghost mouthes that move,
with lingering tongues and hidden stories.
Tear off the shirt,
tear off the pants,
the briefcase incinerates,
it is too hot for them.
We go up in a flash of light
that eats the house and topples the fence.
Who stands at the burning center,
who shakes the dust from their body and steps out from the smoke?