There is a weighing on my heart today.
A bastard anchor dragging across
the floor of my chambers. A whirlpool
of the sea inside me slamming
against the sides of this young vessel. Red meat
could not have done me wrong
this young? It’s a slow, wonderful, delicious
death, steak dinners. This tightening
in my chest, covered in phlegm,
only alarms me when I’m the last one
awake, when sleep seems a frightening place,
when conversations reel
off the spool of the reeling brain
barreling down the highway of bed, drenched
in fever. When the walls make low creaks and it seems
the whole town knows all the secrets I’ve forgotten:
How to make the best of a dying winter,
to grab hours by the hand,
to hear birds through the clouds
do more than mock.
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