The graveyard passes me; I am buried
in there, somewhere.
I never got a map.
I got sweet that sweet fragrance of sympathy
from
hands that still pulsate. But a map?
No!
Maps are cold. Indifferent. Without
reason or definition. Identical hands
to
hands laid away forever.
I had a fever for twenty years. It was
habit.
So, I wrote a note:
I am in the graveyard. There is no map.
It is cold, yet I am not.
This fever has warmed me,
blanketed me,
forever.
I hid the note in butter. An arrogant, cheap stick
wrapped in cold paper. The refrigerator
would keep the paper stale.
Then, I left. To the graveyard. It passes me.
It slides off me as if
I am butter. Melting.
In a fever.
A bad habit suddenly hitting my blood.
