the guts are the logs of a fire that burns thru every eye and ear hole
smoke pouring from my mouth
the whole house a home
ablaze
warming tired feet
but burning the toes
and keeping me awake

who is it writing poems at this hour?
surely the cinders grow weary
surely the morning has more life
ahh but the something in my guts
pumping the bellows
ringing the bell
and shouting up the chimney
"THIS IS ALL THAT REMAINS!"
and I understand
watching the fire wane