I am burning my eyes out
on the things I love.
An iron maker, two colors of grass
the lungs of my stuffed sternum
calling to the rocks of
the mountain peak.
Moths flowing out of my archive.
A glass door in the reflected corpse.

Tan depthless lenses
in the energy sector.
Wombs and sockets moving toward
the stacked lights.
A parcel wrapped in tin wire
sprouting fevered limbs.