A fever crawls into you. a colorful one. scarlet? yellow?
Too soon to tell.
Restless and itchy, you grab any rumor
That's lounging around.
Blame it on boredom or the position of stars.
Perhaps the good weather has made your brain crazy.

You write "warsaw was raw"
In lipstick on your old lover's letter,
Hold it up to a mirror, and delight in yourself.
It's easy, like sending a card to yourself on your birthday
And crying when you get it, 'cause "someone remembered!"
Like when you empty a bag of groceries
Onto the kitchen floor:
When the last apple stops rolling, you call it still life.