You are the shape of
my sickness: a burning
pit of nausea.
In the deepest bowels
of I.

My mind knocks around
in my snowstorm skull
like it's drowning in
formaldehyde.

Ad astra,
ad caelum.

I've come to realize
that my best medicines
(bis in die, ad astra,)
can not cure this
malaise.

So I'll vomit this
into the porcelain
bathhouses of
North America:
burning furiously
alabaster.