Fever Dream

On the insides of the wrist, nape, the elbow’s
hollow: run a thin trickle of cooling water—

I think of myself in that bed: flushed with heat
and delirium, wrapped in nightgowns of rushing water.

What was it the gods claimed was stolen from them?
Some elixir of life, ambrosia, nectar, sugar water?

Flesh sweetens, ripens, pulsed with kisses;
anoint its stations with cologne water.

Above the reflecting pool, trees grows heavy
with fruit. Thirst seems a mere sip away from water.

If I drank straight from your mouth, I might revive
or I might wither. How far from reach is the water?


In response to Via Negativa: Lost.

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