Even the fever was someone’s invention.
And the trap door, one hinge done for,
the other missing.
Then the cluttering of the verge:
The dog wind a busted dream that came
back to me as I was feeding the horses,
their teeth sharp in that way you know they are.
Sorrow, a long apology—
and the traces of blood on sheets.
Two people meeting on a narrow walkway 300 feet
above a flood-tiding river, waiting its turn.
The echo of contrast and variation,
like that guy on that bridge wearing shades—
was he looking at me?
That reflection in his glasses.
I was sick then but didn’t know it.
