Finally, I was able to read again today. It's like finally being able to breathe after a fit of coughing. I still feel like the pinata after the party, but at least I can read once more.
Time muddies, sweat and tears will ruffle these sheets, covered with seashells - fitting, to wallow in this briny fever? Corral these sheep into pens of sleep, so they might bounce out again. There is no thinking deep, deep thinking in this bathypelagic dream-scape.
I can see the angler fish, taunting me with lures, it burns behind the shutters even when I shut my eyes. And the fever, the phlegm, the fatigue and stomach aches, the nausea and dizziness, the crescendo of illness-tides rising with the night fill this shipwrecked shell with the ocean sounds of far and distant waves.
I feel like this week is a Simic story: a poem whose satirical description ends in a twist, a smirk, and the hint of sardonicism.
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