I’m trying to be good,
but now I have a book with an inscription,
a storm to rumble through the sea of my sheets,
teeth that clench, clench, clench their way
through night and straight on ‘till morning.
I am awake.
I’ve got a fever that gallops through my body,
rising up from the nape of my neck,
flushing my face, granting me the joy
of hearing my own pulse,
sharp as arrowheads in my ears.
You’re a cherry-blister on my palm,
a wailing garbage truck at five a.m.,
the humidity wound up in my hair
which I try and calm before I go out,
before people see that I’ve got
lightning coming from somewhere