fever

feverish. these red eyes need not stare

apart from what is already seen.

brooding. thou art more lovely

and more temperate.

it is not affection, a toilsome task.

not love, which even blood

embarrasses. the heart, traipsing

on what perhaps could be illegal.

turbulence. it is magnetic, and sharp

like a knife, with its obsession with idiosyncrasy.

only here i bare

for i will not be caught.