Fever
Silence is cracked by the high hiss of steam, and the periodic click, click, click on the other side of this room, two small drums in my moist, salt-rubbed skull. Light pries in through crusty slits. There are black stars up high, swirling off before I can see them clearly. They wait for sleep, when they’ll shatter into glass fever dreams; me, swinging from a chain like a pendulum, a broken story to tell, an incongruity. My heavy head is a hot river, my thoughts a molten well.
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