The Staring Night Series No. 3: This Morning's Fever
all night I passed the seconds, turning the pages of a sleep skimmed through, rest ill-read
not quite understanding my condition
in the morning the glass rod clacking against my teeth as the mercury hovered in
yesterday I wore a wet dress for too long, thin as filo dough, but a strong sail to catch the winds
in the water I stepped on a hard metal something that the rescinding tide revealed to be a rusty oil barrel
an oversized soda can beached on the sand and fixed discarded garbage thrown down by the Gods
inside its damp, salt-rust belly, my fever, incubating darkly from the inside.
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