just as i do, you see reflections of you (reflecting back at me) into a million-zillion lightening pieces and an afternoon when the sky wouldn’t leave us alone in the billowing of patterned sheets creep the colours we dream /behind closed lids/ the walls of this room stream with (raindrops - saline drops) running together pictures hung on doors closed against windy drafts (they prevail anyways)/ ink drips lazily like a sunday afternoon soaking into my skin so that when i press fingertips to the plaster ceiling they leave behind pretty words and prints of my calloused hands (like fevered hearts)- - - - making mistaken angels out of girls with sad-coloured eyes.

- - - - - (author blurt): Fever of 101. That is all the explanation I offer.