There are days you will wake up, crack
the knuckles of your hand, tear apart your fingers,
look for something inside the hollows.
Those are the days the Sun rains fire.
Your skin boils, bubbles, bursts, falls away
in strips of meat, your body in desperate contempt
for your loneliness. You will search
from pancreas to capillaries, looking for a feeling
you cannot name.
And when your body refuses to tell you secrets,
when language stalls and falls away
in a guttural stutter, you will look
beneath bar stools, the aisles of supermarkets,
the mouths of beer bottles.
Those are the days that the emptiness of bone
will be vile to you, a rat crawling, flesh decaying.
All those crevices. So much to fill them with.
If only you knew
what it was.