Rockmallow 2

The fever twists the edge
of blade and pillow:
eyes have pinpoint irises;
thumbs are gargantuan.
He shrinks within the body,
becomes a pin
in a spoor
in a mushroom
in orbit around the bed.
He watches the body
tangled in damp flannel sheets
on the surgeon’s table.
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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