and spin into lines that make sense
in this fevered moment, but will later
read as the impassioned words of another –
madman, prophet, troubled soul, friend, lover, murderer.
Waking in a feverish afternoon and thinking,
“It’s much too early to get up.”
Realizing the sun is somehow now misplaced,
rising in the west, I weakly stand.
I’m a sundial gnomon. My shadow warped.
A fever like an introductory college course.
Preparation for the certainly worse to come.
My doctor disturbingly unconcerned about this number.
Pills melt to nothing, like ice cubes
in a glass and my blistering brain.
(This poem’s title might suggest a connection to Plath’s “Fever 103” – but I don’t see one.)