Sunday, October 2, 2011

Fever Poem

These glands are pulsing
cruel like a pendulum
pinching salty in the corners of my eyes.

Reason buckles in a flood of chemicals
I want to write.
I want to wrangle down a poem
I want to keep the words from collapsing.
I want to found an architecture
better than this fevered skin

I imagine my neurons dissolving into mud
my thoughts fossilize
poems become only shadows in the rocks
like a series of shaded pendulums
marking time between periods of devastation.

In better days
when things are lush again
someone will dig them up and trace the stories
back to their original intent.
I want to write
I want to sort out
some sort of poem.
I sort out the wanting
and mud becomes
some sort of poem.

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