Autobiography of Fever II.

Machinelike
the fever spreads.

First,
clocks, of course,
but now it is hard to believe
in skin.
The slow-drag of words
across it
is a strange actuality.

Because I have not known
the feel of hummingbird wings,
have not counted the beats
that keep them from falling

Because I have not known
piles of half-crushed skulls,
have not held them up
and seen light
through their dry sockets

Because I have not known
blood,
have not tasted
what the mouth wraps around

Because still my rain
is
just
rain,
my red is just red

Because I cannot
actually eat my young
but I do, nightly,

all that remains
is how best
to fit one shape
upon another.

The hammer’s handle is sharper
than the nails
because it knows my hand.

The corners of shapes
begin to peel away
immediately
like a grown child’s wallpaper
I have painted over
so often

the foundation might be driftwood
or any other word
for abandon.