hopefully i have a fever

icing sugar on fragile crumb and soft snow on the ground and the scatter of dandelion seeds and buttercup petals do not touch where

there is dust on a shriveled rose

in the frowning houses, none of the cold, quiet places

no one goes;

where dust sits like cinder on a comfortable chair

no glint of a spark

in the air and

dust moves like a cloud

swallowing the sun

as the windows gape open

moaning loud.

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