Influenza Cadenza

Slices, tendrils, shards
and splinters of the dawning
morning feverishly flit
and slip and slither through

the windows – crack
my eyelids – achy
and oblivious: clumsy
and indifferent: slowly

shifting from translucent
lacy snowy gray to
blinding sunlit January day:
and all of it seems new.

I once believed that poetry
required unrequited love:
but it seems perfectly
at home with flu.



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