ginger snapped.

I’ve been fighting this fever for twelve hours and losing,

spent a week dreaming tidal waves,

losing grasp of hands drowning in the undertow,

ending perfect Caribbean blue,

dreaming children and cross-country road trips,

standing outside the mind’s projection room,

watching each moment fragment

a kaleidoscopic vision of poisoned hopes.

and I’m hesitant to name an antagonist;

fever, dreams, waking life,

with equal reticence of putting another egg in another basket,

but we have to begin someplace.