Canticle of infection—fever
traffic, the communism of flu, when one cell aches,
all ache,

you’ve lain snuffling on the couch
for centuries now. Plucking tissues like flowers.
Reciting day-time tv jingles

as tiny prayers for troubles
too microscopic
to send to an unflinching God:

He is busy watching
the sparrows in order to outlast
eternity while arranging

our guttering out. Any old ill
will do, but this misery never ends.
Death sent Suffering

in its place,
and Suffering takes off its dress and bra,
insists on doing it

in every room of the house.