The Incongruity of An Allergic Reaction To The Air

Being ill calls you softly to mind. Deft, like
The shelf arranged of familiarity and how,
Feeling around with poorly-advise recklessness,
A chasm is found. You are as that,
When ill…when I am, that is. In no derogatory sense,
Of course! But under the
Blur of sickness, the eyes---
No longer desirous of close-up-views
And every
Face that receives no
Previous recognition is
Apparent. The bending of any
Realities. The soft coating of pollen on
The old tables and the inhabited
Sense of Something.


Exceptions make me quite nervous:
If one anomaly
Is present, then the World
May allow for

That is what we hope for,
Is it not? That anomalies playing
One off the
Other emerge in the
Sudden face
Of a barrel-chested
Young Man and coming-upon-it(you),
The sleekness of you,
The closeness. He was wearing something
Else, and I have not seen him since.
You are Otherwise.

If, errant,
The normalcy associated
With life-everlasting
Only the close-up portraits,
Every face square, but unrecognizable
Definition, unlike the jaw lines along your
Angular expression, your shadowed
The imaginings of it!

Where there are exceptions,
There are Rules, the inherent
Balance in
Approved sickness, you
Harbors and the Marshy Places
Between, you
So tender beneath Your
Wrist-thin collared shirt-tie,
Vein-paper seeming, the lines
And tracings of a day's
Perspiration, the heat of you,
The heat of Now and the Illness…

And close, now,
Fever-spiking, you are not
Here, like a Masonic
Templar, off

As if, for the whole, I am fine in my incongruent differences.
And the cough will dissipate, and any Man
I see will be the same as
You when drawn over
The air afflicting my eyes.
They are not. You are. I am…

The exception,
As I breath in
Haltingly. I am ill
Today and you, darling, are gone.