day 25 p.a.d.

Fever

Little snowflakes, little chalky
wafers, you flutter outside my

window. I stick out my tongue but
still cannot taste your

chill. There is a cold I cannot
catch! If you could nip, or bite--

close your arctic fingers around
my throat. Not this, not

this falling down without
frostbite, without numb.

I'm weary of watching
you wobble, stark as

bone, lifeless as the
shavings of a fingernail.