Sick, sick, you are sick

sicker than a dog, a sick to silent a room

to summon phone chains from grade school and

turn church groups to the floor.

Bless thy sick.

 

Laugh. Laugh at those anxious fools –

tell them who’s really sick, not you.

You, alive with the moths as they beat against your window,

you, with eyelashes and snot.

You must itch.

 

Quiet, now. Fill your belly

with nectar hanging from this bedside branch.

Feel your shoulders release, your hand dampen

as if pressing into fog wrapped between sequoias

beside the sea.

 

Breathe the mist in,

Pull it through the hinges of the door

till it coats these plastic veins and calms the light.

Let earth fill your lungs, taste the brine on your tongue.

The sea laughs, too.

 

Sick, sick, let the sick dog in.

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