A Fly A Little Fever

I believe what I feel in my body, my knowing
skin and nerves and muscles. It's 5am
the stars are out but a storm is calling
in from Michigan, now over Lake Erie. A late-
season fly has waked from the sill
now bumbles the lamp like a drunk, and I consult my fear
which has been sleeping at the base of my spine
like a retrovirus and now is broadcasting to charge every organ
green like plutonium, like the god of the underworld
who swallows everything. These days when the mail bombards
my desk with useless complaint and the wireless ether
of the internet crackles annihilation,
remember we come here to lose everything. This makes me anxious,
which leads to regret, which is bad for me.
I'm going too far into thought. And it's true I haven't prepared
for the hour of my death, in my life
that clarity has often been lacking
so I fumbled into error. I have let down the cause.
I have spoken harshly, as if the other's ears were not my own.
All I have left undone which I ought to have
done wars with all I've done which cannot be
undone. I stand accused of laziness,
of loving this hour with my book and a single light
more than work or humanity, and furthermore of taking
injuries to heart when I know the universe
is never personal. It's still black at the window.
I'm drinking tea. I'm ignoring my correspondence.
I think I am coming down with something.
Tumor bacteria cancer a major artery.
My sore right shoulder throbs like a broken heart. I talk to it quietly
saying it's nothing, it's nothing, don't worry, we've come
from nothing you and I my body be quiet
now remember--the sweet tea steaming in the mug--
how together we love the night the storm how far it goes on, and listen
to how it says absolutely nothing, then the fly
comes alive, then the refrigerator alerting the dark kitchen
and a slight ringing in my ears
that's been there since a fever years ago, it's nothing
I don't really hear it unless I try,
like the fly, like the virus, it's not going
away without us even trying without us it all goes on.