What do I begin with this ongoing omnidirectional 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.