the melodrama of influenza

a warm chariot stalls beneath my window,
newly soled hooves scrape asphalt
in anticipation for my arrival
but i am bound by languages that do not exist
for i am a fevered alice,
my world is large, heavy and swollen
yet i lie here frail,
bones exchanged for glass,
my own touch, cold and foreign.
i speak into space
as to remember the sound of my own voice
to quiet the chorus of bells and ringing,
i remember how a mouth full of sentences tastes.

i go to the window;
death's adding the last of stitches
to a cloak i'm to wear.
i have once prayed for his coming for much less.