THE FEVER

it is here –
i find you
hot on my forehead.
words that sit here
like beads of sweat
illuminate in the light.
when they drip –
cut like razors
through the air
and land upon the flesh.
the power source flows
to my wrists.
these fingertips in steady drips,
leave the page
with an image
to really soak thoroughly
into the poem,
induced by the mercury
on the rise
out of these veins.

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