Times like these, life is like this fever. A bit too warm, and spinning and you wonder if you will ever again be as okay as you knew you never were but feel like you can remember. And the soup isn't helping, and the dream is always ending when sweat collects behind the knees; and the heart is always pounding and your face is always red. If there is wellness behind this wall of sickness, then the visions here remind me of the waste I've made of health. And I swear at the sunlight because the night demands to be so long to carry me in cool air to a graceful self-contempt; and I long for the winter where the ice it makes a barrier against every tiny window that lets the light shine through. It will pass, they say, just wait a few days. And my days have past; and certain visions from fevers I've learned to recognize- but some? Some, they are these moments that send me through the next few weeks of aching limbs and feet and hair mopped with sweat; And the soup isn't helping and she is too far to bring me spoons and there is someplace a bed where the sheets are fresh and clean and I can be beside you and sweat a sweat that's purer than snow on my forehead when the nurse would send me home; a boy with lips cracked from thirst will kiss you and, I will be better, I will be better, I will be better, I will be better I promised myself I would be better today, better than I ever was before. -e. _______________________________________________ Five7Five mailing list [EMAIL PROTECTED] http://www.pairlist.net/mailman/listinfo/five7five
