In my lifetime I’ve been given two drawings of a fever. One was body within body within body / and some exponential notation. One was lines as if light in slowed sight. Neither fever was mine.
He was happiest when gnawed on by a beast. / But that was just a trick of the light.
no one wants / to talk about / how relieved // death makes us
You must be hungry, he said. / A magnificent sentence like that, / the last I remember him saying.
There are no humans left, just / whispers and cradles and dust / and the red wind shakes / the Earth with a word / but there is no word...
“Not every kind of craziness makes sense. / Believe me, you’ve got to draw the line somewhere.”
You're coming and my fever rises. I've tasted this before. / I'll leap into the wafted air and go for blood.
On the beds/ Of a lantern-lit hospital/ A doctor/ Playing the flute/ Revives/ Dead tubercular women
It is vaguely thrilling / being a part of a game with a stranger