Fever

I saw a black butterfly in the yard this morning. It's wingtips, burning into the spring air, fluttered something in my chest: the hooker in my dreams wasn't real...and she didn't mean to knock me out...a dream is a dream is a dream.

"Sat there down, once, a thing on Henry's heart so heavy, if he had a hundred years and more, and weeping, sleepless, in all them time Henry could not make good."
-from 77 Dream Songs, John Berryman

Days go by where my body is a liquid sack of relaxation. Days stick when my body is wound so tightly, so absolutely feverish that my mind becomes brittle, the smallest interaction blasts me to pieces. This much sadness turns in on itself. It punches in sleep. Blows out my front tooth- a hot look, I know.


Days when I am able to talk with and see those I love:




Tickle my bones.