My fires roared one night to drive
out an infection of legs and microbes.
Sheets became lit pyre-wrappings
and my pillow a mother sea turtle 
claws scratching my bed to move.

I parachuted back to my bed from a 
dream into the yellow buzz 
of the light out my window 
and my throat tickled the dance
of the cottonmouth snake weaving
in tall grass, puffing and swearing
and thinking of ice chips.

Legs only half-wired to my 
blurry cerebellum, I vine-swung to
the cold, dark linoleum.  The bath-
room sink was only a cold fire-
walk away.  The faucet turned

slickly to unleash one millionth
of a waterfall into my red, plastic
cup, which I lifted to discover my 
covers were knotted  and my pillow
too warm.  Sodium light dripped 
through my window.   Fever-quiet
like the inside of a rock rang through
my lungs and ears.  I hadn't moved.

Again I slid to the sink only
to blink back in my bunk-bed
and hear my brother's contented
breaths, metronome steady to my
tea pot quaver.  Rise though I may,
I can not reach the glacier-white
porcelain sink and pour the storm
onto the fetid swamp that is my throat.

Still, each time I wonder--Is this Dream?

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