There are these fevers
I cannot speak through
these fires I can’t contain—
livid beneath the thickness of
the tongue, these dashed and
scattered whims dancing
calamities around this conundrum,
the cross carried up these rates of change,
gravity conveyed in trudged hills
and bruise-boned shoulders,
matter always meaning it more
no matter who wants it most.
The days don’t look, they cross
the street without breaking
sweat or stride, all sugar and smoke
as the dust dictates the etiquette and
the hat gets passed around.
I keep preaching while the pulpit
blazes and the steeple is seized by flames,
full throated and choking
on the secret I could never say,
all ashes falling down
the empty altar
the litany unspoken.
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