No point of origin has fever.
But its point of departure,
Is a thousand droplets,
Through a thousand pores.
Fever track untraceable.
Although affected by shame.
Even in my feeling right here I cut myself down lines of black and white,
Leave my shadow tacked to the floor with your easy pins.
Lie in ribbons on the blade of ‘too much’,
Only allowed form through the unclaimed dramas,
Of those kind of men.
Who are boys and boys of many other boys.
An endless row of troubled eyes,
In line. On line.
Bitter reverence for a timeless schoolyard.
And teeth set determined,
For a kind of encouragement,
Unavailable and denied.
I’ll walk your corridor.
Ducking and diving all those fragile blows,
To come back home,
To my self.