Torn Page

What do I begin with this ongoing
omni-directional conversation of ours,
these fever dreams where meaning
evaporates just as everything is about
to make sense? So many doors but—

turn back and the hall becomes a maze.
Going forward solves nothing.
I begin again where I fail to be.

The fever breaks. I am in a strange room.
I am no longer afraid. The white sheet,
which is the wind, caresses me naked.
Fire cools me. Everything is in reverse
and unraveling. Finally, I can breathe.

A hummingbird flits through my rib cage,
pauses on my sternum. I have no sugar.
I know the passing hours by their colors
and sounds, and I with them—
an ancient tooth in the tide, visible—then gone.


asha