The fever has him sliding on the edge
of large and small: eyeballs have pinball irises
thumbs are gargantuan.
He shrinks inside his body
until he is a pin
inside a mushroom
inside a dome on the moon
in orbit around his bed.
He looks down upon himself
tangled in his damp sheets
drifting across his mattress.
He drifts, he drifts, he drifts.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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