TriptychJill Alexander Essbaum
I. Fervor A passion too fateful to live with. A fixation too fatal to love with. II. Fever It’s not about the fever. It’s not about the bliss. It’s not about you, either. Except that it is. III. Forever It is useless To despair Of the air. And yet My every breath: Apology. I beg the psychopomp To mercy me. Every night I say my beads. And every night I fret In a bed too fraught With error: My fervor. My fever. My forever. Your nerve. Your no. Your never.
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